


Sharkbait

by Feynite



Series: Sharkbait [1]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Alternate Universe, Looking Glass, Other, allusions to rape, original characters in abundance, sharkbait - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-11
Updated: 2016-05-27
Packaged: 2018-06-01 16:58:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 33,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6528415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feynite/pseuds/Feynite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The home of various Thenvunin/Uthvir aka 'sharkbait' shorts and fills. (Also including various solo Uthvir and Thenvunin shorts.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Teeth

**Author's Note:**

> So probably if you would like to maintain the mystery of Uthvir (and Thenvunin) in my canon Looking Glass fic, you should steer clear of this stuff until most of the revelations pertinent to them in canon have been had. Fair warning.

Sharp teeth are good for a lot of things.

Uthvir has sharpened theirs by dint of considerable effort and learning. Their teeth are strong. Their points are not just for show. They’ve bitten through their own lips, and sliced open their own tongue; cut their cheeks to ribbons on them, and smiled with blood-stained teeth. Invading tongues withdraw as they are raked open.

There is always a vague notion of peril with they bring their mouth close to sensitive areas. 

Plush lips press against theirs. No demanding tongue. A curl of a smile, and a wink. _Mind your teeth._

Stiff lips yield to them, only just barely, but the breath that escapes is still somewhat telling. _Mind your teeth._

Demanding fingers close around their chin, dragging their head upwards as blood drips down their spine. _Mind your teeth._

 _I will,_ they promise.

But behind the promise is always the notion that it could be broken, at a moment’s notice. If they decide it is worth it to take a bite from someone’s lips. To split their skin. Slice their tongue. Even remove an offending digit, perhaps.

Or if, on some unlikely occasion, they should chance to forget how sharp they are.

Kisses sweet as honey. Hard as a knife to the throat.

_Mind my teeth._


	2. Andruil

“Uthvir,” Andruil purrs.

They know that tone of voice.

They still at their place at the high table. Their blood turns to ice, and settles into a knot at the pit of their stomach. But they look up, and smirk, leaning back in their seat.

“My lady,” they reply, in a low voice of their own.

Andruil smiles. There is a glint in her eye. She crooks a finger at them, beckoning them up higher along the table. They tamp down on a roil of feeling, and make themselves get up. Move. Sit next to her. It is a force of effort to remain restrained, but one they can manage. 

They have managed it many times before, after all.

“Uthvir, pet. You look lovely this evening,” Andruil tells them, reaching over and brushing a finger down the side of their cheek. “This light suits you so well. Reminds me of how pretty your skin is… well, most of it.”

She smirks. There are few knowing chuckles around the table, from the ranking elves who follow the joke. Uthvir waves a hand airily.

“Alas, I can hardly claim special credit for that,” they lament, before reaching to refill Andruil’s goblet. Enough drink, they think, and this might be avoided entirely. But Andruil cover the top of her cup with her hand. There is a spark in her eye. Uthvir can never tell if, on occasions such as this, she is admiring them, or punishing them.

Perhaps both.

“I have had enough wine, I think,” she declares. “I am in the mood for something else. Go make my room ready. And yourself, too.”

There are a few hoots and cheers. Shouts of encouragement. Uthvir is smirking as they nod, eyebrows up, as if smug with having been chosen. As they leave the dining hall, the torchlight by the doors flicker. As soon as they are out of sight, they move swiftly, even as their legs wish to drag. 

Do what must be done.

They light the hearth, and arrange the bed. Draw a warm bath that they are nearly certain they could coax Andruil into. She likes her baths. If they have any luck, she will just let them serve her there and then fall asleep. But luck does not seem to be with them tonight, and the look in her eye had been all too knowing and intent.

What did they do today? Performed well on their hunt. Did not upstage her, though. Did their duties promptly. Made some quips, but those are generally neither here nor there. Probably it was not one of their own actions at all. Some other hunter may have riled her, or disappointed her, or reminded her of something that put this desire in her mind.

Uthvir closes their eyes and takes a moment, curling into the dark, hard knot of fear inside their breast. Armour. They take the physical kind off, piece by piece. Set it carefully aside, until their skin is bare in the candlelight. Their heart speeds up at the feeling of the open air on their back. Their hands shake, for a moment, before they still them.

It could be worse than Andruil, they remind themselves. And this has been happening less and less often.

In the mirrors of Andruil’s opulent chambers, they stare at their reflection. Slight and slender, with smooth golden skin, and fine features. A delicate waist, strong muscles, and a back covered in scars. Huge, pale marks that spread outwards from their spine, as if some great beast had once flayed nearly all the flesh from their bones. Or as if someone had once lit their very spine on fire. A morbid map of old pain that fascinates Andruil.

 _“Like a flower,” she purrs_. 

She adores watching them put in the effort to make wings twist and sprout from it. She also adores drawing a sharp blade, and then cutting them off. Pressing healing magic over the wounds. Then watching them close, and leave behind the same pattern of scars.

Uthvir closes their eyes, schools their aura into obedience, and moves away from the mirrors.

Hopefully, that will not be one of tonight’s feature events.


	3. Hurt, No Comfort

The hunt goes… badly.

Their quarry is one of Ghilan’nain’s beasts, which always guarantees an exciting pursuit; if not a harrowing one. This creature is an experiment, which only makes the whole affair that much more difficult. Andruil is set on claiming the prize herself, of course, but it is imperative that the creature not roam beyond the desert landscape they have driven it to. It is fast, and small, and unexpectedly explosive; it could do a lot of damage to any given number of places.

Uthvir does not think this latest experiment even has a name. Andruil sends them off with a party to the east, to make sure it does not slip towards the strip of green on the horizon, and vanish into the jungles - where it will be infinitely harder to track. The party spreads out, and they do what they can to make the region impassable to their prey. Ghilan’nain had warned that it was smart, and could make fires - as ‘can make fires’ had manifested in terms of massive explosions, complete with shockwaves, Uthvir deigns to assume the thing is at least as intelligent as the average elf, too.

It turns out to be a little bit smarter, in fact.

It evades Andruil’s party thoroughly, and smashes through another party towards the south, before veering backwards and happening upon their own blockade. It sets off none of their traps. Uthvir only glimpses a bright flash and smells the tang of magic on the air, and ducks for the cover of a pair of boulders before half the landscape lights up. The _bang_  of the explosion is near deafening. The stifling desert air heats further, and sears across their armour as they crouch low. Three of the other hunters are flung back. One dies in an instant, without even the time to scream.

The creature they are after is a disjointed being. Long, silvery, clawed arms stretch upwards into mist and a body that twists and reshapes itself oddly. Its head is little more than skin stretched thin across some horned, bestial skull. Whatever spirit had been used to give it life, it has been broken and warped beyond recognition.

Sometimes it gallops like a herd beast, and sometimes it swipes like a bear, but mostly, it blows things up. There is a sound it makes, Uthvir discovers; a low whistling warning, right before everything catches fire. It is the only reason they survive the second explosion, dashing clear enough to get thrown against a different set of boulders. Their back burns. Something cracks in their chest - a rib, probably.

Their prey makes a run for the distant line of trees. Uthvir staggers after it, and watches with some satisfaction as it comes up short, caught by the barrier of one of their own traps. Their blood pounds in their head, and the air around then is stormy with emotions. The high sun casts a massive shadow behind them.

They are only just swift enough to block it’s path. Most of the thing’s magic has been spent in the recent explosions. It will need time to recharge its reserves of will, but not much.

The creature rushes them, and Uthvir knows that in this moment, the choice is between letting it get past them, or killing it here and now. A bad choice, either way. Andruil will punish them if they steal her kill, and punish them if they let it get past, too.

Making their choice, they raise their arm, dagger drawn, and in a moment their disjointed quarry falls upon them. It reaches for them, but it does not anticipate the skills of its prey; a flash of magic, a burst of energy, two clean cuts, and the thing falls to the ground. 

Its twisted body smokes where it lands. 

The victory is a costly one, though. 

Uthvir staggers. Their armour is warped, blackened and in some places burning. The arm they’d lashed out with is a mess. Their wrist is broken, or near to broken, and their bracers are smashed off; the flesh they can see beneath it is seared. They smell like cooked meat and blood. Their torso burns, and after half a second, their legs give out. They slump next to the corpse of Ghilan'nain’s warped abomination. The skull of it stares back at them. In the absence of its searing brightness, the desert looks dark and cold. 

They let out a laugh. A broken rasp, that bubbles up with a mouthful of blood. 

They are on the very edge, they know. And things will not go pleasantly from here on out. They have finished the hunt, but they have also killed Andruil’s prey. 

There is always a heavy cost for that. 

Indeed, when they hear the rhythm of hoofbeats, their thoughts do not turn to relief at the rescue. A shadow falls across them. Andruil stares down at the corpse, and the near-corpse; her mouth is a thin line of disapproval. 

Her eyes are sharp. 

“Well done, hunter. You took the prize,” she says. 

Uthvir manages to get their less-mangled arm up over their heart. 

“In my lady’s name,” they rasp, for whatever good it might do them. 

“I am certain such a glorious hunter would not wish for the indignity of another’s ministrations. Since you have sustained some wounds in your hunt, you may get yourself to the wagon, and see to your injuries there,” the huntress declares. 

Ah.

Well. 

That sounds very near to a death sentence. 

Uthvir has no intention of letting themselves become just another corpse in the dust, however. As Andruil gathers up their kill, they crawl their way towards the lone wagon. It is a joke to think they could heal themselves. Under the circumstances, it takes what limited talent they have for that magic to keep from spilling all their blood onto the blackened dirt beneath them. But they do it. They climb inside, and take a moment to just breathe in the relief of the tarp overhead. 

Of course, the wagon is for transporting dead prey, mostly. Their peace is short-lived as Andruil loads their ‘trophy’ in next to them. She gives them another sharp look, but says nothing further as she closes the tarp over them. Uthvir focuses on breathing, in and out, past the burning in their chest. Survive. Survive, survive, survive. They gather up enough of their magical reserves to heal themselves, bit by bit. Close one wound. Ease one burn. They are no great expert at the craft, so they focus on the areas that hurt the most. Or bleed the most. Their warped armour will not give way under their fingers, and given the circumstances, they would not wish to remove it anyway. They do the best they can with injuries they can feel but not see - which is most of them. 

After what seems an interminable length of time, the wagon begins to move. It is a simple hauling cart, really, and the beast which pulls it is no considerate halla; it seems to Uthvir like they drive over every possible rock and stone on their way back to the eluvian. By the time the light shifts and the air changes to that of the crossroads, they are lying in a pool of their own blood, and their limbs are distressingly cold. 

Their mind drifts, as the wagon rolls down more even roads. Broken dreams and wandering half-thoughts, and fear that burns in their breast and grows deeper with each passing moment. They force it down. Try and focus on the weave of the tarp over their head, rather than the sightless eyes of the trophy next to them, or the numbness. Focus on the bright spark of pain instead. Pain means they are still alive. 

At last the wagon passes through the crossroads. They muster enough energy for another healing spell. It is scarcely through them before the tarp is being cast aside. 

“Well, hunter,” Andruil drawls. “Come and show off your spoils." 

Uthvir swallows. 

"Your spoils, my lady. I am but your humble servant, and all I do is in your name, as ever,” they say. 

“Yet you knew this kill was mine,” Andruil snaps. A few of the other servants and hunters have gathered to witness this back-and-forth. 

“I also knew you did not wish it to escape the desert. As I am little more than a tool of your arm, Mighty Andruil, my kills are only ever yours. I chose to serve as your arrow, rather than let the hunt be lost,” Uthvir says. It is a voice of effort to speak clearly and strongly, and they are sure they are fooling next to no one, crouched as they are in the back of the wagon; but it is what they can manage. 

After a moment, Andruil lets out a disdainful huff. 

“Really, Uthvir. That is pouring it on rather thick,” she says. “Go get yourself cleaned up. If you are so willing to put aside your dignity, seek a healer or two to help with that. I will expect you at dinner, at the least." 

"As you say,” they agree. The nonchalance is probably undermined by the fact that they fall out of the wagon, sliding down from it and then staggering against the wheel, but they keep their feet. 

Their gaze locks onto the long walk across the courtyard. 

Survive. 

With a shaky breath, they begin to move.


	4. Shards

It is a tiny, tiny thing.

It is the only thing they own. They are not supposed to own things, but they own this. It is theirs.

They wrap it in a dark cloth, and keep it safe. Tucked away in places where no one will find it. Hiding spots that no one ever looks in. Someday someone might, and it will be gone. But it is safer than keeping it on themselves.

It is theirs. 

Sometimes they take it out to look at it, when they can dare to. It is only a little sliver, barely the size of their smallest finger. They hold in it in their palm, in the dark, while they are all alone. It makes things brighter. Not by a lot. But it is more than the blackness of the room they are in. They can see the skin of their own palm, and the curl of their own fingers. 

It is so pretty.

A crystal, but more than a crystal. Warm. It feels good when they press it to the places that hurt. It doesn’t heal, not quite, but it helps. It is the colour of starlight. 

It is their tiny star-in-the-dark.

They look at it until they feel exhaustion overtake them. Then they put it away again, and shuddering, fall into restless sleep.


	5. When Thenvunin Met Uthvir

****

Uthvir does not know very much about Mythal’s people.

They have a solid military reputation, but most of that is attributed to the strategies of Mythal herself. The way the other hunters speak of them, the woman’s followers sound like flowers; like Sylaise’s, perhaps. All pretty and wrapped in soft fabrics and delicately carved armour, and concerned primarily with matters of appearance.

When Mythal’s contingent arrives, this theory seems to gain weight. Of course, everyone is dressed in their finery. Uthvir stands a few steps removed from Andruil; they are clad in red and black, in the newest set of armour they had been able to commission. It makes them feel sharp and stark and dangerous when compared to Mythal’s people, who flutter and float like drifting leaves off of trees.

Good.

Uthvir is not a leaf, and would not care to be compared to one.

Still. The other hunters are excited. Not even at the prospect of the actual hunt which Mythal and Andruil have planned, but at the presence of these guests. It feels like a hunt of a different sort is brewing among them, as they eye Mythal’s pretty servants, and much discussion is had over which of them is most pleasing to look at, or would be the most entertaining in bed, or the most challenging to win over.

“I have missed having pretty, soft things around this hall,” one of the hunters says, leering. The evening banquet has devolved almost entirely away from polite conversation as the light had waned; and most of Mythal’s people had drifted off to rest from their journey.

Uthvir glances at their peer sidelong.

“Personally I maintain an idle hope that at least one of these creatures is actually skilled,” they say. “Though I understand your preference for easy prey. Considering.”

The other hunter sneers at them.

“I could catch _you_  easily enough, no matter how many spikes you layer on; you are soft-bellied as anything.”

Uthvir moves, and as they do the chairs around them and between them empty out in a hurry. The other hunter twists, anticipating a blow, but not quick enough; and they guess wrong, thinking that Uthvir will satisfy themselves with a knock to their head. Instead they close a fist around the other elf’s throat, gripping hard enough to sink the razor-sharp tips of their gauntlet right through flesh.

With a wrench they drag the other hunter over the table. The sconce behind them flickers and dies. Their target reaches for the blade at their belt; but they are only lightly armed and armoured, and one of their hand is still scrabbling at the talons in their throat. Uthvir catches their wrist easily, and slams them back against the table. The wood cracks. They twist their grip, and blood pours from the ravaged neck onto their hand, and bones break satisfyingly beneath their grip. A piercing scream strikes through the air.

“What is going on here?!”

A shrill, outraged voice breaks through the haze of blood and violence. Uthvir turns, just slightly, and sees one of Mythal’s people in the corner of their eye. The man looks aghast, staring at where the hunter is still pinning their peer to the surface of the banquet table.

“Now, look at that. You have made me upset our guests’ delicate sensibilities,” Uthvir says. After a moment more, they let go. The other hunter clamps their working hand over their neck, and scrambles away, as one of the healers sighs and heads over from a far corner of the room.

They turn to face Mythal’s follower, who is staring at them wide-eyed.

“What was all that about?” the man demands. He is dressed in very fine clothing, that flows about him like silvery smoke. Or at least, the outer layer does. Underneath there seem to be hints of more colourful fabric, poking through the folds just here and there. None of it looks particularly suitable for Andruil’s halls, though. Too soft and airy.

Uthvir shrugs.

“Just a little discipline,” they say. 

“You call that savage display _discipline?”_  the elf demands. Then he straightens, and stares down his nose at them. “What is your name?”

“I am called Uthvir,” they admit. On a whim, they lift their bloodied gauntlet, and lick a stripe off of one of their fingers. The pretty elf recoils, mouth twisting in disgust.

What a delicate creature.

“I will be speaking of this to Mythal,” the elf informs them. “And I am certain she will take the matter up with your own lady.”

Uthvir smirks.

“And I am positive my Lady will regret retiring early and missing such sport,” they reply. “But you are being most impolite; here I have given my name, and you have failed to reciprocate. What shall I call you?”

The elf hesitates, only for a moment.

“Thenvunin,” they say.

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Uthvir replies, and they give this Thenvunin another assessing look, before turning away dismissively. They have had enough intrigue for one evening, they suppose. As they feel the elf’s gaze follow them from the chamber, they raise a hand, and wave.

“Good luck with the hunt tomorrow, _Thenvunin,”_  they say. “Someone will be by to wake you in the morning.”

 

~

 

Savage.

This Uthvir is an absolute _savage._

Thenvunin makes certain to watch them carefully during the morning hunt, as they ride alongside their lady. After all, someone like that - someone who would just _attack_  one of their fellows, dragging them across a table as if the person in question was not twice their size… well. They are very dangerous, obviously.

Mythal had not seemed too concerned over his report on the evening’s activities, however.

“Andruil’s people know violence very well,” she had said. “Did the elf who was attacked perish?”

“No,” Thenvunin admitted.

Mythal had nodded.

“Then it is not our concern; and I doubt it would trouble my daughter much, either. Her ways are not quite so peaceful as ours.”

Thenvunin had accepted Mythal’s wisdom and judgement, of course, but still he watches this Uthvir closely. Out of suspicion. They are very fast, he notes. They ride at Andruil’s side, and are clearly favoured; and they make the second kill of the morning, spearing an elk with a swift, clean shot. Their form is deadly and impeccable. 

When they smile, the sharpness of the expression seems to carry through the whole of them; from the pointed tips of their teeth to the hard edges of their armour.

Thenvunin claims the fifth kill for himself. One of the other hunting teams drives an unexpected wyvern nest out of the tangle of the woods, and the beasts surge through their group. Thenvunin draws his blade, and cuts through the first to reach them; relying on the steel and the strength of his own muscles to cleave through the beast’s flesh.

It is a good strike; though it has the downside of spattering him with gore. He grimaces in the aftermath, and feels sharp eyes on him.

Uthvir saunters over to inspect his kill.

“Did you panic, or do you secretly enjoy getting messy?” the hunter asks, with a smirk.

Thenvunin bristles.

“My thoughts were reserved for ending the danger,” he says, wiping a hand down his front to remove the larger pieces of gore clinging to his person. He whispers a hasty cleaning spell.

“Shame,” the hunter tells him.

Then they glance at the wyvern’s corpse again, before sauntering off.


	6. Ugly Birds

“That is the _ugliest_  bird I have ever seen.”

Thenvunin sighs, and nods in agreement of this verdict from his fellow ranking elf. Tutheneras is the official keeper and tender of the palace’s menagerie, and they take their job quite seriously. It is thanks to their skill and diligence that the birds and small beasts and reptiles which populate the grounds are all lovely, and healthy, and carefully suited to match their surroundings, both for the purpose of flourishing, but also for the purpose of aesthetic appeal. Every animal in their care has a purpose; to make beautiful music, to help promote peaceful or invigorating atmospheres, to serve as living artwork - it is a complex job, and Thenvunin has nothing but admiration for the skill of his peer.

So he cannot help but agree with their assessment of his latest fledgling. Most of the nest had been nothing but successes; beautiful little birds with fluff giving way to violet plumage and, most importantly for this breed, screechy little lungs that would eventually mature into the beautiful singing voices it was renowned for. Thenvunin had raised generations of these birds, and he had never seen a failure quite like this before.

The fledgeling is loud, and screechy enough for it to seem profoundly uncommon. Its downy fluffy had not been the same hue as the others, but it is only now, as its feathers are coming in, that it’s apparent why; the bird’s feathers are all an awful muddy brown. Its beak is over-large, giving the tiny creature a mean looking countenance, and its eyes are abnormally wide-set and tiny. Its legs are too short and its chest is too deep.

“I can dispose of it for you,” Tutheneras offers.

Thenvunin nearly stumbles in shock.

In all his years of keeping birds, the only time he has ever disposed of one has been when it was too deathly ill to repair, or elderly and suffering in the declining years of its life. Though it is not something he advertises, his garden is as much a bird graveyard as it is anything; generations of songbirds have been buried there, after reaching the end of their lives. This fledgling’s own ancestors were all put to rest there, after long, fulfilling lives.

But then, he has never hatched an unquestionable failure of this magnitude before.

He sucks in a deep breath.

“It is still much too early to call, I think. I have never seen a fledgling like this before, and some look remarkably awkward until they have finished growing,” he says.

Tutheneras raises an eyebrow at him.

“I cannot imagine anything that would make that awful colour appealing. And it is wall-eyed,” the animal expert points out, tsk’ing a bit and reaching towards the nest.

Thenvunin moves it hastily out of their reach.

“I will handle it!” he insists. 

Tutheneras shrugs.

“Suit yourself, then.”

Thenvunin does not even realize he is holding his breath until his friend has sauntered from his chambers. When he lets it out again, it’s in a great rush. The normal fledglings peep and rustle about in their nest. One of their parents wings in through the window, and hops down Thenvunin’s arm to begin feeding them.

The ugly one screeches, horribly, and steps all over its siblings in its haste to be fed.

“You really are exceptionally hideous,” he tells it.

It ignores him.

“…I think I shall call you Screecher.”


	7. Ducklings

When Thenvunin is born, the healers whisk him away before his mother even has a chance to hold him.

Something is wrong.

It had been noticed during the pregnancy, of course. But the healers had been wary of doing too much during such a delicate stage of development. So it is not until he is born that they commence a full examination of him. He is tiny; premature, and malformed. His ears do not work, and his skull is the wrong shape. He struggles to breathe.

The healers work swiftly. Compassion is with them; the spirit settles gently against him, and helps his tiny lungs to work, as he is slowly but surely brought to the point where death is no longer imminent. The point where he can be taken back to his parents, who are instructed to hold him carefully; who fret, and worry, and wonder what they did wrong, that their baby should come into the world with such difficulties.

Low conversations are had. Mythal is informed of the situation, and comes and sits with his parents, and holds him awhile. 

“He will be well,” the great leader promises.

The healers worry over doing too much to him with magic while he is still growing and developing, however. For the first few years of his life, Thenvunin is never far from an expert in healing magic. He is provided - cautiously - with feet to toddle upon, and he is very slowly altered enough to be able to hear. 

When he is four, he learns that his parents do not like to let people see him. He is tucked away beneath blankets and coverings on the rare occasions when they take him to more public places. If a stranger drifts too close, one or both of them will always cut them off and send them away.

 _What if they recoil?_  he remembers hearing his father ask his mother.  _He does not know that he looks strange. What if he finds out?_

In Thenvunin’s dreams, he asks Compassion.

“I look strange?” he wonders, as the big spirit holds his hand, and walks with him through the Dreaming. Spirits do not seem to mind how he looks. They drift close and blink at him, and ask him questions, and tell him things.

“You look different from how most children do,” Compassion tells him.

“I do?”

He has never seen another child before. He thinks he might be the only child in the whole world right now. Compassion nods, and shows him; the spirit conjures an image of a different child his own age. Thenvunin stares in fascination. He can see his own reflection on a glassy surface just a little bit behind them.

At first, he does not see the differences as something good versus something bad. It is simple interesting. This other child has a different shape. A different sot of face; and different limbs, too. They are longer, and their eyes are closer together, and they stand differently.

“How come I look different?” Thenvunin asks.

“Because you were born that way,” Compassion tells him, simply. "Your spirit was very strong.”

Thenvunin puffs up a little, pleased at the thought. Strong. That’s good.

He looks at the image of the other child for a little longer, and then puts it aside, and goes with Compassion to investigate more interesting things in the Dreaming.

It is not until he is six that he learns that he is  _ugly._

His parents have been disagreeing with his healers about something. And with each other, too. He knows that, but it is not very uncommon; and he does not know what, in particular, this fight is about. Not until his mother sits down to play with him one evening.

He hands her one of his favourite dolls. One of the ones with very long, soft hair, that is good for brushing, and a dress made out of pretty blue fabric. She looks at the doll, and then smiles at him.

“Do you ever wish you looked more like your dolls, Thenvunin?” she wonders.

The question takes him by surprise. Dolls look like dolls; he had never before considered how much they looked like  _him._  Though they do look more like the Other Child that Compassion showed him in his dream, he supposes.

Reaching up, he grasps the braid of his hair.

“I have hair like my dolls!” he chirps, happily. 

“Yes, but… your dolls have very pretty faces, too,” his mother says.

All at once, then, Thenvunin understands.

The dolls are pretty.

He is not.

His parents are very discerning. His father makes furniture. His mother makes clothes. He has sat with them many times, and learned the difference between  _beautiful_  and  _pretty_ and  _unsuitable_  and  _ugly._ He has heard them speak.  _That design is the most hideous eyesore I have seen in my life,_  and _that sofa is so ugly it should be taken out and burned._

His mother gets distracted by his father calling for her, and the conversation is abandoned.

Thenvunin stares at his dolls.

He thinks about his father, pointing out what is ugly about a piece of furniture. And he finds himself noticing the differences between them in a way that he had not, before.

That night he dreams his parents are looking down at him in disapproval.

“Look at it,” his mother says. “As if I want to be associated with anything that hideous.”

“Well you made it, my heart,” his father replies.

“Ugh. Do not remind me,” his mother says. Then she claps her hands, and two of her assistants appear. “Take it away,” she demands.

The assistants grab Thenvunin. He reaches for his parents, but they both turn away, talking about how they’ll have to start over and try again. They do not even look as he is carried towards a pit, and then dropped into it. He is on the verge of waking up, he thinks, when the dream dissipates.

Warm arms close around him.

He blinks up at Compassion.

And then he starts to cry.

“It is alright,” the spirit tells him. “They love you. It is alright; you are not furniture or clothing, Thenvunin. You will never be thrown away.”

But the damage is done. He can see it, now. Sometimes his mother sighs wistfully when she is making children’s clothes; pretty things that are not for Thenvunin, that get sent away to other children in different parts of the world. Children who are not covered when they go out in public. Who look like their dolls, and do not disappoint their parents with their ugliness.

He carries these thoughts with him, like a dark knot that settles into the middle of his chest.

When he is nine, the healers start to change his face. It is painful, though. They use a lot of magic, and he cannot see very well for a few weeks; and afterwards they start to change his legs, too, and then he cannot walk around easily. He becomes very bored.

His mother brings him his first songbird, then.

“Birds are very awkward when they are babies,” she tells him. “But when they grow up, they are beautiful beyond compare.”

The songbird she gives him is already fully grown, with lovely, colourful plumage, and a voice that makes his heart leap. She sits with him when he cannot move, and pulls his braid out of its fastenings with her beak; and she sings to him, in whistles and chirps. She flops into his lap and lets him gently touch her feathers. She eats from his hand, and brings him little rocks and twigs and things that she seems to think are interesting.

Baby birds are awkward.

Maybe she thinks he is a baby bird, then. Maybe she thinks he will be as pretty as she is, once he has finished growing. Because she does not seem to care that he is strange and ugly. She likes his company quite a lot, in fact; enough so that when he is bedridden, she calls for him until his parents let her up to sit in his room.

By the time he is twelve, he is less ugly-looking. He stares in the mirror and sees a face that looks more like his father’s. His parents are pleased, and plan a trip into the city, to visit some friends of theirs that they have not seen since before he was born. They do not cover him up, for this. Though it is very tiring, he can walk ‘normally’ for several minutes at a time, and when they take to the streets, it is in full daylight.

People stare.

Thenvunin finds himself starkly aware of everything about his appearance. How he is moving his limbs. How his clothes fall on his person. His face; his hair. He can scarcely afford any notice for all the goings-on of the vast and magnificent city around them. All he can feel are eyes on him; all he can think about is whether or not he is slipping up, and embarrassing his parents.

When they get to the estate where they are staying, he is exhausted. He wants home, and his growing menagerie of birds, and his comfortable chair. He breaks down crying. His mother fusses, and in the end the trip is cut short as his parents decide to bring him straight back home instead.

“Well, that was a disappointment,” his father mutters, while he is resting in a small carriage.

“We should have known it would be too much excitement all at once,” his mother says.

“You can go back,” Thenvunin finds himself saying. “Please. You can go back and have a good time.” He finds he is suddenly deathly afraid of the prospect of having ruined this for them.

“No, Thenvunin, we cannot go back, because we are not terrible parents,” his father tells him. “And you are supposed to be resting; not martyring yourself.”

“Darling,” his mother says, reproachfully.

“He is as frail as paper, and needier than any child I have ever met before!” his father snaps, and the anger in his voice makes Thenvunin go still. “I am so tired of this. I am so tired of trying to protect him from what he cannot be protected from. He is going to grow up knowing nothing more than birds and fabric swatches, because every time he has to walk a few steps in a public place, he breaks down weeping! These past twelve years have been a nightmare!”

There is a sharp smacking sound. A  _crack,_  and he goes still as he hears something strike the dirt near to the carriage.

“I will break you in half, my love, and do not doubt it,” his mother snaps, low and furious as he has never heard her before.

There is a long pause.

Then a low scuffling noise, as his father gets up from the ground.

“Be silent,” his mother says, even though his father had not said anything more. After a moment, the carriage begins to move. When they get home, his mother helps him out. Her eyes are red. He feels wretched with guilt and self-loathing and misery, and he does not know what to say.

She hugs him tight.

“You did very well, Thenvunin,” she tells him. “Ignore your father. He left his wits behind this morning. It is a good thing we turned back, because now he can retrieve them.”

“I am sorry,” he says.

His mother takes his face in his hands.

“Never apologize for yourself,” she instructs him, firmly. “You are making perfect strides. Every day, you improve. That is what childhood is all about.”

Improvements.

But it is the mostly the healers, he thinks, who have been making those. Thenvunin is merely the flawed and broken canvas for them to work with.

“When you are grown,” his mother says. “The healers will be able to fix you fully. This is just for a little while, alright, Thenvunin? And when they can fix you, I will take you all over, to see all the most beautiful parts of the world. It will be easy for you. You will be as lovely and strong as you deserve to be, then. Alright?”

He nods, accepting, and is grateful that his mother is kind.


	8. First Times

“Be quiet!” Sethtaren hisses.

It is dark, and the camp is still and silent around them. The walls of their tent are thin. Sethtaren’s right hand clamps down over Thenvunin’s mouth, as his left works its way into his pants. Fumbling with the clasps on his belt. His nerves are racing.

Sethtaren is very beautiful. Thenvunin knows it; half the camp can seem to speak of nothing else, and it is apparent besides. The older elf is a skilled mage, with skin like white marble, and fit, straight hair; a slender build, but tall. He is unblemished. Unmarked by any scars, or even much decoration. His fingers are smooth and a little cool.

“If you do not stop moaning like a wanton spirit, you will wake everyone up,” Sethtaren hisses at him.

“I am trying,” he hisses back.

He has never done this before. He has touched himself, of course, and there have been dreams, but those were all in very private locations. He is not sure he still wants to do this, as it is. Hurriedly, in a tent in the midst of a war, with Sethtaren snapping impatiently at him.

“Fine,” the older elf decides. “Hold still.”

“What?” Thenvunin asks, as his partner moves back. He feels a trill of unease. “Maybe we should…”

“Shut. Up,” Sethtaren repeats, working at the laces of his own pants. “And stop squirming around, before you knock the tent down.”

Thenvunin definitely does not like this, he decides. This is not what he had been imagining, before. There are no gentle caresses, or unbridled passions; Sethtaren has not even kissed him, yet. He is not sure he even wants him to, now. He had before, when the older elf had been complimenting him on his hair and his wit, and saying such nice things about his skill with a blade. But the compliments seem to have abandoned them somewhere outside of the tent.

“Sethtaren…” he begins.

“What?” Sethtaren asks, exasperated.

“…Aren’t you going to kiss me?” Thenvunin wonders.

Sethtaren leans forward and shoves his tongue into Thenvunin’s mouth. It is less a kiss than it is a bizarre, messy intrusion. There is no press and slide of lips; there is just suddenly a tongue that is not his own, prodding at the walls of his mouth.

He pulls back, sputtering, and Sethtaren hisses at him to be quiet again.

“What was that?!” he demands.

“You are terrible at kissing, is what that was,” the older elf tells him. “Look. Just lie there, alright? Do not move, do not make a sound. I will do all the work. You can just be pretty; that is all I need you for, anyway.”

Thenvunin thinks that maybe he should get up and leave, instead. Go to one of the other tents. But then Sethtaren is pushing him down, and he finds himself just… going with it, instead. Maybe it will be better this way, he thinks. He has no experience, but Sethtaren does; and he _is_  very nice looking.

It ends up being quick, at least. 


	9. Love Bites

“I cannot _believe-”_  Thenvunin hisses, once they have finally separated into groups for the morning hunt; and of course, Uthvir has organized things so that they will be together. The insufferable, unrepentant savage.

Uthvir smirks at him. Knowing. Smug.

“Problem, Thenvunin?” they ask, lightly.

He _seethes._

“You left that mark on me on purpose!” he accuses, voice still low, even though the other hunting parties should be beyond hearing range. One can never be too discreet, after all.

Which is the very point of his outrage.

Well. That and the fact of the unwelcome ravishing which resulted in it, of course. The insatiable hunter had broken into his rooms by way of the window he had left open for fresh air, and of course, they had availed themselves of Thenvunin’s form. A relentless flurry of groping and thrusting and biting, licking and clawing that he had nobly withstood with impeccable decorum, until the fiend had… well. The details were not important. But Thenvunin had perhaps lost focus for an instant; and Uthvir had seen fit to latch upon his neck in repayment.

Normally the hunter at least has the base decency to _heal_  the marks they insisted upon making.

He flushes with outrage as the hunter’s grin takes on a distinctly lustful gleam.

“I never said I would not,” Uthvir points out.

“You always - you - you knew I would not notice!” Thenvunin snaps, flustered only by the hunter’s obtuseness. “It is fortunate more people did not see! Are you trying to destroy my reputation? Have all faint scraps of decency finally fled you?”

Uthvir raises an eyebrow.

“Perhaps,” they say, lips twitching as Thenvunin’s glare intensifies.

“How dare you! Of all the gall!”

“Careful, Thenvunin. If you keep squawking like that, you will scare away all the prey,” they inform him. That gleam is still in their gaze, though. It occurs to Thenvunin that it is uncommon for Uthvir to not take the mounted portion of a hunter. But they are on foot today. In the woods. Well away from the other parties.

“I do know a way to make you go uncommonly quiet, though,” Uthvir muses.

He shivers.

“You would not _dare,”_  he says. But of course they will. Of course they will press him against one of these nearby trees, and have their wicked way with him. Alone as they are, there seems little point in resisting.

Uthvir stalks closer, and leans in towards him. He can feel their attention upon his neck. See the fiery intent in their eyes, as their sharp grin widens, and they blow a breath that travels up to the tip of his ear, and makes him reflexively shiver again.

“Of course I would never presume upon you, Thenvunin,” the hunter says, though; and then they pull back.

Thenvunin blinks.

A sour feeling he refuses to name as disappointment sinks through him. It is, of course, distaste for the obvious _lie_  that Uthvir has just breathed so easily into the air between them. The spot on his neck that had been mauled the night before most certainly does not tingle. Nor do other places.

“Never presume? _Never_  presume? All you have ever done in the time I have known you is presume!” Thenvunin points out.

“Disappointed?” the hunter asks.

“Of course not! I am simply appalled at your obvious self-delusions, if you think there is any part of this arrangement that does _not_  involve you presuming upon me!” he insists.

But Uthvir just laughs. In a single motion, far too swift for Thenvunin to anticipate, they reach and smack a hand solidly against his backside; proving his obvious point, and startling an indignant cry from him.

“ _Fiend!”_  he hisses.

The hunter winks.

“Come on, now, Thenvunin. We had best kill something, lest you be publicly embarrassed,” they say.

If only he was not so attractive, Thenvunin thinks; then he would not have to suffer all these unwanted indignities.


	10. Friendfiction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Thenvunin writes fiction.

Of all the elves in the ancient city of Greenspire, Prince Thenerassan was considered to to be the most beautiful. His hair was the colour of fine platinum, each strand as valuable as any treasure in all of the nine kingdoms. His eyes were as polished gemstones. His skin was bereft blemishes, with lips like rose blossoms, and he had a singing voice that could soothe roused dragons and call birds down from their perches. He was the treasure of Greenspire. The finest piece of artwork within its walls. Many sought the prince’s hand, but no champion had ever met the high standards of his parents, who were often cruel and indifferent to their son’s wants and desires, but who also saw opportunity in drawing tribute from the various suitors that pursued him.

Thenerassan was more than a mere decoration, though, however lovely he may have been. And he was exceedingly beautiful. In the high and lonely tower where his chambers were kept, he confided in his only friends - the sweet birds who flew to him through his open windows. They were beautiful, and sang with him, though his parents scoffed at his devotion to such simple creatures. Yet their was more mercy and compassion in their feathery little hearts than in all of Greenspire, thought Thenerassan. They would come when he whistled, and sit with him in his favourite emerald-back chair. One which had gilded legs, each carved with six elegant vines. Often Thenerassan would wear his favourite silver and violet robe, which billowed prettily around him, and his high white knee-boots, and a tight-laced top that showed off his exemplary figure, and his very fine golden breeches. He would tell the birds of his dreams, and his secrets, and the life he longed to live.

For the truth was, in addition to being the most beautiful elf in Greenspire, Thenerassan was also the finest swordsman. He had practised his craft in secret, for his parents worried that the heft of the blade would put callouses on his slender hands. But Thenerassan knew of ointments and oils that kept his hands perfectly supple and smooth, and had used them in great abundance, so that his secret would not be caught. At night, in the moonlight, he would slip from his tower and down through the courtyard, and thence out into the forests. There he would dance naked with his blade, as the moonlight fell upon him, and lit his radiant beauty.

There was danger in the practice, of course. But Thenerassan was so skilled he did not think any beast or opponent could over come him.

He did not account for trickery. Nor for the hunter who had spied him. A great red beast, who had watched Thenerassan in secret each night, and had burned with yearning to have the beautiful warrior. It could not defeat him in combat, however; and so it devised a cunning trap. When Thenerassan next ventured into the forest, the hunter sprang from the trees, and knocked the sword straight from his hand. Before he could even hope to react, he was pinned to the ground.

“Ha ha!” growled the hunter. “I have you now, my pretty swan!”

“Who are you? Why have you attacked me?” Thenerassan demanded. The hunter hummed, and raked lascivious eyes over his naked body. Hungry eyes. The beast was like an elf itself, but also wild and ragged. It had sharp teeth, and claws, and it was strong. Thenerassan’s heart raced as he realized his predicament. He was trapped, pinned, and utterly at his captor’s mercy.

“Why, because you are the most beautiful elf I have ever seen, and I long to spirit you away to my den. There I will ravish you,” said the hunter. 

“Oh no!” cried Thenerassan. But there was nothing he could do. 

He wept, beautifully, as the hunter spirited him away through the trees…


	11. Friendfiction 2

Thenvunin’s day is going terribly.

He’s had to spend it running around doing errands, and dealing with Andruil’s insufferable hunters, and helping with _their_  errands, which are never pleasant and are frequently bloody, and he’s had enough of it. All he wants to do is get back to civilization, have a warm bath, and rest.

Personally, he blames Uthvir for his current predicament - slogging through the wilderness after the hunter had requested he go and meet some messenger out here. An hour later and there is no sign of the messenger. Only the increasingly foul weather, and a growing impatience in him for forests at large. He is heading back, he decides. Let the messenger hang; Uthvir can get someone else to stand out in the weather, if it comes to it.

Besides, the sky is getting darker.

And the shadows are getting longer.

He has no desire to try and navigate this ridiculous place with even less visibility than it already offers. That is, naturally, the only reason for his haste as he begins to head back. He makes his way back up the path from the rendezvous point, but then pauses.

The roads have changed.

He is absolutely certain of it. There was only one road when he got here, but now there are two. Probably some arrangement which the hunters have; some fool ideas about challenges and whatnot that Uthvir neglected to tell him about. Again. He huffs a little, and makes a mental note to complain over that before examining the paths. One veers steadily towards the darkening woods. He gets and… ominous feeling from it. The trees around it are tall and thick, and the wind seems to howl where it passes between them.

The other path is more open, and well-lit; likely the road back to the palace, then. Thenvunin nods to himself, and heads down it.

Something moves in the corner of his eye.

He pauses.

A quick check of his surroundings reveals nothing of note, though. Probably just a squirrel or some other stray beast. He is often amazed that there is anything left living within a thousand miles of and of Andruil’s holdings. Certainly no one could pay him to bring along his birds for a trip like this. His stomach turns at the very thought.

After a moment, he resumes walking.

And walking.

And walking… further than he thinks he should, really.

The sky grows darker. The once-airy path becomes more narrow, and shadowed, and overgrown. The little hairs on the back of his neck begin to stand at attention, and Thenvunin is given to the increasing impression that he is being watched. 

With a curse under his breath, he determines that he must have picked the wrong path.

“Just have to backtrack,” he tells himself, and turns.

The road is gone.

The trees have seemingly closed ranks behind him. The path he had been taking vanishes in a small circle behind his steps; turning to rocks and ferns and gnarled, twisting roots. The shadows of the forest behind him are long and impenetrably deep, now. His throat goes dry. His hand makes its way to the hilt of his blade, as he scans his surroundings and confirms. He is lost.

More than lost; he seems to have wandered into some kind of trap. Though who has set it, or why they would, remains a mystery. There are stories, of course, of hunters who lose their minds, and opt to begin hunting other elves. Wild tales, really. Thenvunin has never once put much stock in them, but right now they seem to be all he can think about.

Surely no one would want the trouble of targeting someone of his rank?

“If anyone is out there, you should know that I am a high-ranking servant of Mythal, and that my absence will not go unnoticed!” he calls into the wilderness.

Something flutters through the canopy overhead.

His grip on the hilt of his blade tenses.

There is no answer, however. After a moment, Thenvunin finds himself forced to weigh his options. He could turn back anyway, he supposes, and try to cut a path through the undergrowth. That would likely dull his blade, though, and he does not trust his knowledge of the area nearly enough to chart a course back to Andruil’s palace. Or, he could keep following the path ahead of him. Which is almost certainly a trap. But he has been underestimated before. With a sharp blade and a keen eye, he might turn the tables on whoever is orchestrating this little game.

Or, if he has simply happened by the bad luck of following some hunter’s trial or another, the path could lead to one of their resting points or cabins. He would rather that, he thinks, than the cold damp of the wilderness.

With the hairs on the back of his neck still standing firmly at attention, he makes his choice, and continues on down the road.

It carries on for long enough that his legs begin to tire, and he starts to truly regret his choice. But then the trees begin to thin again, and he feels a moment of hope; hope that is not wholly dashed when he emerges into a clearing, and finds that he has still not made his way back to the palace.

But the place he emerges into _is_  beautiful.

It is a grove. There are runes for safekeeping and privacy carved into the border of it, glowing softly. The fading light filters through the trees, casting dark green shadows over the surface of a small pond. Hummingbirds flit by the mouth of large, brightly coloured flowers. The moon - still faint in the sky - seems to reflect beautifully well off of the leaves of a few slender, crystal trees that grow in the middle of the clearing.

Not civilization, no. But the runes promise some, at least, and the place does not feel ominous. Thenvunin relaxes his grip on his blade, a little, and wonders if he might rest here.

In a flash, something charges at him.

With well-honed reflexes, Thenvunin draws his blade, and turns to meet his attacker. Whoever it is happens to be swifter, though, and apparently expecting the move; in a blink the shadow is at his back. Sharp claws close over his wrist, and wrench. He gasps, elbowing backwards even as he finds himself disarmed; his sword clatters to the ground, but his attacker grunts as his blow connects with their middle. They are not deterred, however; an armoured leg weaves through Thenvunin’s, and in a moment he finds himself sharply over-balanced, and sent toppling to the soft earth.

And pinned.

His heart hammers in his chest and all but jumps up his throat, it seems. Some mad hunter has gone and gotten the better of him. Someone strong enough and quick enough to put him in the ground. His magic flares, but there is precious little of it to reach here, for some reason.

And then a familiar voice chuckles.

All at once, his distress is significantly lessened.

“ _Uthvir?!”_  he snaps.

His attacker leans over his back. He’s treated to the familiar sensation of sharp teeth grazing the tip of his ear. He shudders, and absolutely _does not_ want to be bitten.

“Who else would dare trap such a pretty prince, but the audacious Red Hunter?” Uthvir asks, voice low and dark.

Thenvunin shudders.

“Get off me, you barbarian!” he demands. This is a coincidence, he decides. It has to be. Admittedly Uthvir has never called him a ‘prince’ before, but it would not be… _wholly_  uncharacteristic, he thinks. And granted, Uthvir does not usually describe themselves as a ‘red hunter’, either, but everyone else does. What with all the… red, and all.

Uthvir chuckles. But the some of weight on his back does let up - not enough to let him stand, though. Strong thighs pin his arms to his sides (Uthvir is _straddling his back,_  oh no, that is not… that is… damn) and the sharp claws of what must be armoured gauntlets, he realizes, trail across the backs of his shoulders. He can feel the tips even through the layers of his clothes.

“If you tear my clothes…” he warns.

“Is it my fault you did not follow the script? As I recall, you should already be naked,” Uthvir quips. Thenvunin’s heart leaps again.

“What are you going on about?” he demands.

“Why, your story, of course,” the hunter purrs.

…Dammit.

“I have no idea what you are talking about,” he insists.

That earns him another chuckle.

“I am _sure_ ,” Uthvir says, drolly. There is definitely a ripping sound, and a pull at his collar. He swallows, his mind racing. Uthvir read his story. _Uthvir_ read _his story._  Oh, he is never going to live this down. This is a nightmare. This is the worst thing that has ever, _ever_  happened to him, including that time he accidentally fell into the world’s most massive pile of fewmets.

The point of one armoured finger brushes over the side of his cheek.

“What do you say if you want me to stop?” Uthvir asks.

Thenvunin swallows, as a bolt of arousal shoots straight through him.

“What kind of a ridiculous question is that, anyway? If I want you to say stop I will say ‘stop’, like any sane man would. Is it my fault that you are so relentless that the word has no effect on you?”

Uthvir flicks his ear.

“I know you are happy to let me do all the work, Thenvunin, but really. If I am going to tear off your clothes and ravish you in a beautiful grove in the moonlight, you are going to have to give me a word. Just one little word. Otherwise, I will get up off of you right this instant, and never ambush you in another forest again.”

This is preposterous. Thenvunin does not actually _want_  to be ambushed in forest groves. That was _fiction._  He is only aroused because Uthvir is literally sitting on him, and is bizarrely attractive, and probably would not take ‘no’ for an answer anyway, even if Thenvunin gave in and provided them with some silly, useless word or another.

Like…

“Starling,” he says.

“Well done,” Uthvir commends. There is a tremendous rip, then; something sharp tearing through all the layers of Thenvunin’s beautiful clothes and grazing his skin.

“Stop ripping my clothes!” he demands.

Uthvir ignores him, and in short order he is struggling, cursing and protesting as the hunter rips through expensive fabrics with savage abandon. Chuckling cruelly. At some point he manages to get onto his back instead of his front, but it is hopeless, he realizes; for all their slightness of build, Uthvir is very strong, and relentless, and has no sense of propriety. They grasp his chin in one hand, and pull him in for a savage kiss. Sharp teeth nip at his lips.

“Monster,” he gasps, when his mouth is freed. “Let me go!”

“Naive prince. Monsters never let their victims go; not until they are dead,” Uthvir says, with a wry twist of their lips. Then they move forward, pinning Thenvunin’s wrists and biting down on the side of his neck. Beast. He feels a jolt of pain that burns through him at the unforgiving assault; a sensation that mingles with his arousal, and he has to bite back on a moan, and fight the urge to grind his hips upwards. Uthvir is still in full armour. He shudders at the thought of trying to move against that.

…Because it would be unpleasant.

Of course.

“You could always call for help,” Uthvir suggests, lapping at the bite mark that just left. 

And risk someone find him in this compromising position? Rescue would not be worth the indignity, Thenvunin decides. He scowls at his relentless assailant, who responds by pressing another bite into the bared skin of his shoulder. He swallows back another moan and remains still. The hunter sighs, and eases back to look at him. Thenvunin tries to get his breathing to even out; to mixed success. Uthvir is staring at him with an assessing look.

Probably imagining all the horrific uses they plan to put his beautiful body to.

“Alright,” Uthvir mutters, seemingly to themselves.

They stand, then, to Thenvunin’s surprise. His relief - and it is definitely relief - is short-lived, though, as a moment later the hunter forces him to his own feet. Gathering up a few tattered scraps of his clothing, Uthvir shoves him roughly backwards, until he collides with the trunk of one of the grover’s crystal trees. The smooth, cool bark presses against the bare skin of his back. He swallows as the hunter smirks, and growls a warning when he tries to move.

Uthvir pins his wrists together, binding them with the remnants of his outer tunic. The knots are deftly tied, and a moment later strung through a loop of rope that the hunter pulls from their belt, and uses to secure Thenvunin to one of the lower hanging branches. His arms are suspended above his head. The height isn’t quite enough to strain his shoulders, but it’s a near thing.

His heart speeds up. A trill of fear slides down his spine.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

Uthvir pauses, looking down from the rope. The hunter brushes his cheek again. A touch that might be mistaken for a caress, before his chin is captured again, and he is forced into another sharp, bruising kiss.

“Stringing up my prize, of course,” Uthvir says. 

Thenvunin tests the rope around his wrists. Sturdy. But the fine fabrics of his poor clothes are soft, at least. A mercy he doubts his captor intended.

“Fiend,” he spits.

Uthvir smirks.

The hunter moves in close, running a hand down the tattered scraps of cloth still clinging to Thenvunin’s hips. They trail long scratches through them, and across the skin beneath. He swallows as their teeth close over his earlobe, and then Uthvir moves to whisper to him.

“Before the night is done, prince, you will be _begging_  this fiend to touch you,” the hunter promises.

 _Not likely,_  Thenvunin thinks.

His defiance must show too readily, because Uthvir grabs him, then, taking his cock roughly. They narrowly avoid raking the sharp tips of their gauntlet over his most sensitive skin. The leather of their palm crinkles and the cool planes of their armour press unapologetically over his shaft. He bites his lip, fighting his reaction to the touch.

But it is only the one touch.

Uthvir withdraws, then. The hunter looks away from him, and begins undoing the fastenings on their gauntlets. Thenvunin lets out a breath - of relief - and sags against his bindings. He tests the ropes again, but they will not budge.

It only remains to wait. The sky has darkened further. The wind curls through the grove, but there are some sensible weather charms here, it seems. It is not unpleasantly cold. Strands of his hair catch in it, and flutter beautifully over the tree behind him.

Uthvir deposits their gauntlets amidst the crystal roots.

Then the hunter sits down.

Thenvunin blinks.

A moment passes. Then another. Uthvir stares at them, and then at the grove; looking for all the world as if they are contemplating whether or not to open their pack and have a sandwich.

“What are you doing?” Thenvunin asks, at last.

“I think the tree is prettier than you are,” Uthvir says, at length.

Thenvunin freezes.

… _What?_

 _“ **What?** ” _he demands, aloud.

“Well, I was just thinking. You and the tree have a very similar sort of aesthetic. All…” Uthvir gestures, vaguely. “…Shiny, I suppose. Nice enough. But if I must choose, I would have to say that the tree is prettier.”

“That is ridiculous!” Thenvunin snaps. “First of all, no one is making you choose! Secondly, it is a _plant._  It is pretty enough, but utterly lacking in any sort of nuance or complexity. Thirdly, am I to take it you would rather ravish _the tree?”_

The hunter shrugs.

“The tree might give me more of a reaction. At least leaves rustle,” they declare.

Thenvunin scowls.

“Well forgive me for not providing sufficient entertainment to my insatiable, barbaric attacker!” he snaps.

Uthvir presses a hand to their chest.

“Someone might think that apology was _insincere,_  Thenvunin!” they warn.

This is ridiculous. What kind of savage hunter ties their victim up to a tree so they can make unflattering comparisons between their _extremely ravishable_  prisoner and the local foliage?!

“I do not have to take this!” he declares.

Uthvir laughs outright.

“You are tied to a tree, you ridiculous creature! You can take whatever I give you.” They leer, then.

The wretch.

“And I suppose you intend on coming here and ‘giving’ me something else in short order?” Thenvunin snaps, twisting at his bindings a little. He moves his feet, but he cannot get far.

“If that is what you want,” Uthvir replies.

He sputters, indignant at that insinuation.

“As if anything going on here has ever been about what _I_  want! You - you savage rapist!”

He expects things to escalate, then, as they usually do after a particular exchange of insults.

To his consternation, though, the hunter stiffens. After a long moment, they then settle back onto the sweet grass of the grove. Uthvir turns their gaze towards the nearby pond, so that they are not even looking at Thenvunin _at all._  It is insufferable. Thenvunin scowls. This is, he supposes, probably a good time to attempt an escape. Even though that is probably just what Uthvir wants him to do. He twists and pulls at the ropes, keeping one eye on the hunter for any signs of interest. But even when he gets the tree branch over him swaying, and showers them in tiny crystal leaves, they do not look towards him.

“This is _ridiculous,_ I am clearly trying to escape!” he finally snaps.

“Good luck,” Uthvir says, raising a hand to wave airily.

“What are you - are you… do you not _care?”_  Thenvunin demands. “You went to all this trouble to capture me, and you would let me get away?”

The red hunter shrugs, and after a moment, looks back at him from over their shoulder.

“Do you object to getting away?” they ask.

Thenvunin fumes.

“If I am going to be captured, I at least expect some reason for it!” he declares.

At last, then, the hunter stands, and moves towards him. They come to a stop just barely out of reach. Thenvunin moves back, closes to the tree, and braces himself. But for a long moment, Uthvir only looks at him; head tilted in contemplation.

“When I tell you that you are pretty, Thenvunin, you lie there like a lump. When I tell you I am going to ravish you, you hardly move. When I call you inadequate, you chafe, but then freeze. You are infinitely more entertaining with your clothes on than off; but I wonder. What do I have to do to hear that rich voice of yours moan? Beg? Call my name, perhaps?”

Thenvunin swallows. A strange rush of emotion passes through him. The air colours with it, briefly; though even he himself is uncertain of what to name it. Whatever it is, he pushes it down, and turns it into a derisive sneer in short order.

“Transform into someone worthy of me,” he declares. “And I will consider it.”

Uthvir laughs.

It is a sharp sound.

At last the hunter stalks forwards, pressing him back against the tree. Their laugh twists into a snarl. One of their hands closes around his throat.

“You do not want someone ‘worthy’ of you, you pathetic creature. You want to play games where monsters make you their prize. You want to look down on me while I force you take what you want. You wrote that little story, Thenvunin. You can sneer and feign disdain all you want, but it is a hollow gesture when we both know you could snap that damn tree branch with half a spell and a sideways nudge. You want me to play the villain and be the predator in our game, and I will. Gladly. But you do not get to look down on me while I do it. You do not outrank me or outclass me. Understand?”

The hand on his throat is firm, just shy of choking. Uthvir’s gaze is intent as hard, but nowhere near as hard as… other things. Which are currently pressed up against the thigh of the hunter’s armour; perilously close to one of the spikes.

Thenvunin is sure he has never been so aroused before in all his life.

But this… he…

“You have it all wrong,” he insists.

Uthvir stares at him.

Then the hunter takes their hand from his throat, and step back.

With a snap of their fingers, the knot binding his hands breaks. He stumbles a bit, but being pressed against the trunk already, he manages to avoid tripping. He stares uncertainly at Uthvir, even as the hunter turns away.

“The road back to the palace is that way,” they say, pointing towards the edge of the grove, where a path does indeed wind off into the trees. “It should be a short walk.”

Thenvunin hesitates. He does not think he has ever heard the hunter sound so… icy, before.

“You tore my clothes,” he protests.

Uthvir shrugs, unconcerned.

“Should I care?”

He bristles.

“I am not going back to the palace _like this,”_  he insists, quailing around the sudden surge of disappointment settling into the pit of his gut. It is because he is so aroused, he insists to himself.

“Then I hope that you enjoy your new life as a scantily-clad forest hermit,” Uthvir drawls. 

Before he can even think of a suitable response to that - and he manages to sputter out a few false starts - the hunter turns on their heel. In a flash of light, red armour gives way to brown wings, and a large hawk takes off for the trees. Thenvunin gapes for a moment, before shouting. Uthvir absolutely must come back, and give him _clothes_ , and - and…

Well.

If he has to pay a price to regain some semblance of dignity around others, so be it.

But no matter how he shouts, his insatiable captor refuses to return and ravish him.

By the time Thenvunin finally staggers off own the road, and back to the palace - and endures the snickering hunters as he explains that he was _beset upon_ by _wild beasts -_ he is wholly decided.

This day is not just terrible.

It is the absolute _worst._


	12. Friendfiction 3

It is time to be frank, Thenvunin decides - he is exceedingly aroused and frustrated. 

This situation is, of course, entirely the fault of Uthvir. Who had the gall to kidnap him in the woods with the intent of ravishing him, and then, to his bafflement, the gall to leave him without even following up on said ravishing. 

Not that he wanted to be ravished, of course. No. It was the inconsistency that had bothered him.

Thenvunin is fairly certain he has figured out the game now, though. After several days of watching the hunter prowl around, with their lithe, viciously sharp form, and their smirks and winks and pointed remarks, he has happened upon the answer. They have done this on purpose, he decides. They have aroused him, and awoken his body’s desire for contact, and then left him without it explicitly so that they can seduce him, and have the gratification of seeing him come begging for their attentions. 

Well, Thenvunin decides. _That_ will not be happening. There are plenty of fish in the pond, as it could be said, and he is a fine prize. He could find any number of partners to help see to his needs. Granted, there are an abundance of barbarians and savages among Andruil’s hunters; not a respectable crowd at all. But he is not looking for a meaningful encounter, here. Just a relief of excess physical distraction.

He recalls an interlude he’d had with one of Elgar'nan’s peacekeepers, and thinks something like that might just be the ticket. 

He must be cautious, though, he decides. Anyone of too low a standing would be prone to wagging tongues, and he would not have it be known that he’d gone to bed with some lowly hunter. Surely most would have troubles believing it of him. But even so, better not to chance it. Especially not in the hunters’ own territory. 

There is the halla tender, though. A servant of Ghilan'nain; much more discreet. And very aesthetically pleasing. Which, of course, he likes. Though she is abnormally small. Thenvunin approaches her, but when he finally makes his overtures clear, she turns him down flat. 

She does not even give him a clear reason for it, except to say that he is not to her tastes. 

Which is preposterous. Thenvunin is to everyone’s tastes. Provided they have any to speak of.

And yet, the next prospective partner he approaches - a high-ranking hunter, with dark hair and an excessive amount of physical bulk; surely not someone who sees propositioning from people as worthy as Thenvunin very often - turns him down, too. The hunter laughs, in fact, and makes some pithy comment about preferring ‘feisty ones’. 

How would he even know that Thenvunin is not feisty? 

A second hunter reacts in much the same way. The next evening at dinner, there is a murmur through the hall, and Thenvunin finds himself subjected to Uthvir’s amused smirking and blatant baiting. He narrows his eyes, and a suspicion grows in him. 

Of course. 

Uthvir must have advised the other ranking hunters not to bed Thenvunin. Ostensibly for political reasons, most likely; but in truth, because Uthvir wants Thenvunin all to themselves. This is likely vital to their plans, after all. Thenvunin seethes over dinner, glaring into the hunter’s sharp, devilish eyes, and watching the slow spread of their lips as they smirk. Sitting beside him, all sharp, swift movements and insistent vitality. 

“Something the matter, Thenvunin?“ 

He sniffs. 

"The venison is cold,” he says, sneering. 

The red hunter leans forward. Thenvunin braces for the anticipated indignity of a hand on his thigh; a habit Uthvir is fond of. Sneaking inappropriate touches where they know it is too public for him to make a fuss over them. But the touch does not come. The hunter merely fetches them a fresh piece of roast. 

“I suppose it would be rude to leave you with cold meat,” Uthvir quips, as they drop it onto their plate. 

Of all the… 

A thousand replies dance upon the tip of Thenvunin’s tongue, but all of them seem too obvious for the company they are in. So instead he merely redoubles his sneer, lets out a stiff word of thanks, and cuts into his dinner with renewed fervour. 

“Uthvir,” Andruil calls. 

The hunter stiffens beside him. 

It is a little thing. No one else seems to notice it. But Thenvunin catches it from the corner of his eye; and odd twitch of the hunter’s shoulders, before they straighten and stand up to answer their lady’s summons. 

He tells himself it is an absolute relief not to have Uthvir sitting next to him anymore. The night proceeds in a rowdy fashion from there, with only his fellow servants of Mythal maintaining proper decorum. Andruil herself gets roaringly drunk, and passes out at the very table; and she is not alone in that, either. Uthvir, who against all odds manages to stay relatively sober, has to have servants come and collect the inebriated hunters - leader and all - and move them over to the pit of cushions by the fire. 

Thenvunin lingers. Only because, despite all odds, the meal tastes good. And he is not in a hurry to go to his fur-strewn rooms and try to pass another night without tossing and turning. 

He wonders if Uthvir’s rooms have so many furs in them. As he recalls, they do not. 

Well. 

Well… he does need his sleep, really. And Uthvir has a private bath, too, come to think of it; a luxury he would not have expected the hunter to care to acquire. But they had. That would be nice, Thenvunin supposes. As the hall falls into sleepy silence, he considers that, really, in the name of serving Mythal to the best of his abilities, he should be well-rested. And endeavour to overcome his sexual frustrations. 

If he has to convince Uthvir of some - some regard or another on his part to accomplish that, well. It is not as if such duplicity isn’t regularly committed by Andruil’s people themselves. 

He is still debating the matter when Uthvir walks behind him. Their hand reaches out, almost casually, and brushes through Thenvunin’s hair. One of their nails clinks against the crystal butterfly hair clips he had braided into it that morning. He startles so badly that he jumps. 

But the hunter does not even pause to relish this effect. They keep going, instead, a slight sway in their hips, a smug smile plastered to their lips. Sometimes Thenvunin is given to the impression that Uthvir could be truly, astoundingly beautiful if they applied themselves to the task. Not just sharp and well-muscled and uncouthly predatory. But _stunning._

When they glance backwards, just slightly, before they leave the hall, Thenvunin at last rises from his seat, and follows them. 

He gets to the corridor which the hunter had turned down, but finds it empty. A check of the ceiling, and the corridor behind him, does not reveal any lurking hunters. Yet the hairs on the back of his neck stand at attention as he makes his way down the hall; warning him that hungry eyes are upon him. He proceeds to where Uthvir’s rooms are, and knocks on the door. 

No answer. 

He knocks again, only to see a shadow fall across his shoulder. 

When he turns, there they are; as if they have been standing in the hall this entire time. Their gaze is half-lidded.

Their smile is sharp.

“What do you want, Thenvunin?” Uthvir asks in a low purr, advancing on him. 

Thenvunin takes a reflexive step back. And then another one, until his back bumps against the door, and the red hunter moves in close. Not close enough to touch, though. They stop just in front of him; their mouth perilously close to his throat, and their hands spread against the wall behind him. 

Thenvunin swallows. 

“Someone could see us,” he hisses, glancing towards the other doors in the hall. 

Uthvir smirks. 

“Then you had better hurry up, and tell me what you are after,” the hunter says. Hot breath ghosts across Thenvunin’s skin. 

It is just a ruse, he tells himself. A convincing ploy. He is playing his own game as surely as the hunter plays theirs. He can… he can endure the inevitable unpleasantness, of course (because such things that Uthvir likes to do are most certainly unpleasant to him, and not exciting at all) for the benefits. Physical stimulus. A nice place to sleep. A bath or two.

Yet it feels perilously close to relief, of all things, when he opens his lips and his answer spills out. 

“…You." 

Uthvir raises a brow.

"Come again?” they whisper. The low tone of their voice sends a reflexive surge of arousal spinning straight through Thenvunin. 

“I want you,” he says. 

Uthvir snaps. The door behind him opens, and he stumbles back, nearly falling over as the hunter drives him into the room. He catches his balance before he can trip over the scale-covered rug at his feet. With a wave, the hunter closes the door. It bangs shut loudly enough to make Thenvunin worry about discretion. But the force of it makes him shiver, too; a purely reflexive reaction to the vibrations. 

“What do you say if you want me to stop?” Uthvir asks. 

This again? 

But, Thenvunin supposes, if he is to play along, then he had best sell it. 

“Starling,” he replies. 

The hunter surges forward. Thenvunin barely has time to realize what is happening before he is being accosted. Uthvir’s hand closes around his throat, and bares him down to the surface of the room’s large bed. The points of their gauntlets prick at the skin of his throat. His heart pounds and his breath catches, and his thoughts only come back to him when Uthvir begins to tear through his clothing again, ripping at the fastenings of his armour and tearing through seams and laces. 

“Do not destroy my clothes!” he demands. 

Uthvir responds by pinning his wrists down, and kissing the breath from him; tongue plunging into his mouth, and teeth scraping across his bottom lip. They growl. The sound reverberates straight through him, and it is a force of effort not to twitch his hips upwards. As it stands something perilously close a breathy moan escapes him when the hunter finally pulls back. But there is no answering quip or denial to come at the moment, it seems; Uthvir simply resumes tearing off his clothes. When Thenvunin tries to halt the destruction of his very fine pants, he discovers his wrists have been weighted to the bed. 

Through the curtain of his mussed hair, he can see where the blankets have risen up and engulfed his hands. But fabric alone could not have stopped him. He feels the tell-tale strain of magic, and something akin to fear and excitement slinks down his spine. For all their many faults, Uthvir is very adept, and sometimes alarmingly powerful. 

He cannot afford to forget that, he supposes. 

A gauntlet-clad hand closes over his jaw again, and turns his face for another searing kiss. 

“Such pretty prey,” Uthvir says. “You should have let go in the woods. I could have spread you out underneath all of those silvery branches, like a banquet.”

Thenvunin most definitely does not appreciate the compliment, no matter how his nether regions react to it. 

Before he can think of appropriate reply, however, the hunter’s teeth graze across his throat. He stills, his pulse spiking again at the awareness of having those very sharp points pressing so close to his jugular. Uthvir is fully clad, and their armour presses against his bared skin. The tips of their gauntlets prick at his flesh as they drag their touch down the length of him. The hunter slinks down, drawing that dangerous mouth of theirs southwards, before sinking their teeth into the flesh above his left nipple. Sharp enough to just barely burn, at first, before the pain settles in, and Thenvunin hisses. Blood wells up.

“Beast!” he protests.

Uthvir licks up his blood. His breath stills as they then lave across the smooth surface of his skin, and drag the trail of it over his nipple. Then protests abandon him entirely as his nerves seem to ignite. For a moment he can feel the scrape of Uthvir’s tongue across the sensitive skin so acutely that it is impossible to tell whether the sensation is pleasurable or painful. Then it shoot straight down to his groin, and it seems he is decided. A startled breath escapes him before he can swallow it back.

He manages to hold in the second one, though, even as the hunter continues their assault on his flesh.

“My lovely prince,” Uthvir purrs.

Their voice shoots through him as surely as their touch seems to, and Thenvunin’s breath hitches. That damn story. He never should have written it. He glances down to see the hunter wearing an insufferable smirk, and grits his teeth.

“Shut up,” he snaps.

Up go Uthvir’s eyebrows.

“What? I am not allowed to praise you? I thought you liked compliments, Thenvunin. Shall I not compliment your soft, pretty skin? Or your firm, strong muscles? Or your lovely, lustrous hair?” they ask, as the sharp tips of their gauntlet trail down the flesh of his stomach. A few prick downwards, drawing up tiny little wells of blood as they go.

“I did not come here for mockery!” he insists. Then he stills, as those armoured fingers draw perilously close to his own softest places.

Uthvir’s smirk widens.

“’Shut up and fuck me, Uthvir’, is that it?” they ask.

“It is _lust_ ,yes,” he agrees. “Just get it done with!”

Uthvir laughs.

“Of course it is lust. But perhaps we should see what Lust makes of you,” the hunter suggests, sitting up and pulling back.

_No._

Thenvunin bites down his protest at the withdrawal of their touch.

“Why is everything such a production with you?!” he demands instead.

Any further protests he has die, however, as the air shimmers, and his peaked arousal seems to increase exponentially all at once. He goes still from shock, his brain processing just what Uthvir had said before they moved away, and what that could imply. Would there really be…? No, of _course_ there would be such a spirit; these are _Andruil’s_ lands, and they are full of lustful hunters with little to no restraint.

Nevertheless, his eyes widen, and his mouth goes dry. Uthvir moves up towards the end of the bed; to where his wrists have been weighted down. The hunter rests their hands upon his shoulders, brushing a brief touch to the side of his cheek.

The spirit that drifts into the room raises the temperature along with it. At first it is fairly formless; bright but indistinct. A flame burns at the centre of it. But as it draws closer, it begins to shift. Bright eyes stare at Thenvunin with hungry intent. It _looms,_  slanting over him; clawed hands settle onto the bedspread at either side of him. Its countenance settles into something uncannily similar to Uthvir’s.

“Ah,” the spirit growls. “What a treasure.”

Its grip settles onto Thenvunin’s legs, and firmly parts them. When the spirit’s touch goes, he burns. He twists, and a gasp escapes him. Uthvir cups the side of his face, and presses a kiss to the tip of one of his ears.

“There is so much pent up in him,” Lust says.

“I know. It would be such a lovely thing to crack him open and set him free,” Uthvir agrees.

Thenvunin is trapped between the two of them, and so overwhelmed with the unexpected charge to the atmosphere, and the fire pressing at his skin, that he can scarcely even dream of responding. Though if he could, he would protest.

And then he would not, because as soon as he sucks in a breath, Lust descends. With uncanny strength the spirit lifts his thighs, raising his backside up off the mattress; it twists unnaturally close, and rakes its tongue across him. _All_ the way across him. It delves between his cheeks and presses against his entrance, up against the filthiest part of him as if _savouring_ it, warm and wet and insistent before dragging its way over yet more sensitive skin, up his length and then back down again. A choked cry, mingled shock and outrage, escapes him. But it breaks and transforms into something perilously close to a moan as the creature dips back down again, and licks at him; pressing its tongue into him, moist and wet and probing. When he clenches it only narrows; his breaths stutter.

Uthvir kisses his cheek.

The softness of it shocks him almost as badly as the mess of sensations surging upwards from Lust’s ministrations. He inhales shakily, and the tongue inside of him seems to widen.

“I know it goes against the grain, Thenvunin, but unclench a bit, hmm?” the hunter asks.

Insufferable.

Yet something about their voice is… grounding. Despite himself, Thenvunin does find that between the sound of it, and the warmth pooling in the pit of him, some of his shock wears down. It is… the creature is only… serving him after all, it seems, and however vile the act might be to contemplate, it… does not feel unpleasant.

He relaxes, somewhat. He swallows down his sounds as best he can, even as the probing spirit brushes against a part of him that makes stars blink across his vision. It curls one massive, possessive touch around him, and he comes; and then it keeps going, insatiable, as he struggles to find words, and pull fruitlessly at his restraints.

It is a Spirit of Lust; it will have to be halted.

“Stop!” he commands.

“So lovely,” the spirit admires, and pulls back with a literal glint in its eyes. That should be it, Thenvunin thinks; but instead of withdrawing, the spirit only lifts up. It looms over him, holding up his thighs still, and lining their hips together. Another part of its anatomy presses against the entrance it had lavished with so much attention.

“Uthvir…” Thevnunin begins.

Lust plunges into him.

His back arches as the feel of the spirit’s intrusion bursts through him. It is pain and pleasure; it is relentless as it immediately sets about doing precisely what it wants with him.

But it is Lust, some dim corner of his mind knows. It is not doing what it wants with him, but rather, it is doing what _he_  wants _to_ him.

But he does not want this.

No.

It presses, in and out, sparking his nerves as its hips snap against him. The bed creaks with the force of it. He is making sounds, he knows, wrenching moans and cries as he is lifted half off the bed, as the intrusion within him seems to grow and magnify and turn more violent. A well of ugliness spreads inside of him. Denial and self-loathing, confusion and humiliation and _fear._

 _“Starling!”_  he shouts.

He has barely begun to cry out, though, before Uthvir is moving. In an instant the spirit is being pulled back. He drops down onto the mattress, his chest heaving as the hunter does something to Lust, and without further ado it blinks away. The air around him crackles a little bit, and he finds he can move his hands.

He curls in on himself. Ragged breaths punch their way out of him. His thoughts feel scattered; his arousal burns, but so does the ugly weight of emotion in his chest.

There is a soft _thud_  as a few objects drop to the floor.

He turns to see that Uthvir has taken off their gauntlets. Underneath, they are wearing dark gloves.

“May I see?” the hunter asks.

Thenvunin stares at them, uncomprehending. After a moment the hunter moves forward. Their touch is… surprisingly gentle as they coax him onto his stomach. Words seem to have fled him, caught up in the knot behind his ribs, as they carefully part his cheeks and inspect his abused hole. Their touch brushes across it, and his skin tingles.

“There, now. No tearing, at least,” Uthvir says, quietly. One of their hands brushes down his spine. A light caress one might almost take for comforting. Their gloves are soft.

“That was… I did not want that,” Thenvunin rasps. Even to his own ears, though, his voice sounds uncertain.

“I gathered,” Uthvir replies.

But he must have, too, mustn’t he? That was how spirits worked, after all.

“Lust…”

The hunter sighs.

“Lust is thicker than a brick wall. I should have known it would just pound away at you like a piece of meat; no subtlety,” they tsk. “Though at least it offered a few insights. Which is what I was hoping for, I confess. It figures you would have a thing for getting your ass kissed.”

Yet another sound bypasses Thenvunin’s dignity. This one cannot seem to decide if it is a protest or a shocked laugh.

“I do _not,”_ he objects.

“Hmm,” Uthvir replies, obviously sceptical.

Which.

Perhaps that had been… interesting, in some ways. Utterly filthy and disgusting, of course, and he would never in a thousand years be on the giving end of an arrangement like that, but… not _entirely_  without its positives. In a sense.

“You looked spectacular,” Uthvir tells him.

He shifts and glances at the hunter, and some of the awful horror in his chest eases a bit. Their expression is somewhat… gentler, than usual.

He sniffs.

“Of course I did,” he replies, haughtily.

That seems to amuse them for some reason. They stand up, and nudge his hip.

“Come on. For courtesy’s sake, I will run you a scented bath, and you can look beautiful drifting among the rose petals and soothing oils,” they suggest.

Thenvunin lets out a long breath. He sits up, and finds he feels very raw inside; but noticeably less torn.

“I suppose you will want to continue to have your wicked way with me afterwards,” he suggests, lightly.

There is a brief pause, as Uthvir stares at him. Weighing something. But then the hunter seems to reach a conclusion, and inclines their head.

“I suppose I shall,” they agree.


	13. Deepstalkers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Thenvunin acquires deepstalkers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I combined a few prompts into this one chapter; it's basically all the Thenvunin-and-deepstalker shenanigans from tumblr.)

They peep.

Like baby birds.

Thenvunin stares at the nest of creatures. The adults had attacked their party, and been summarily dispatched. Vicious, aggressive, biting lizards that had been driven to fight the intruders in their territory, it seemed. The nest puts their obvious outrage into perspective. It is a small one, dotted with broken eggshells still fresh from recent hatchings. There are three small occupants in it, climbing over one another, with long awkward necks covered in soft, wrinkly skin.

And they peep. Calls for parents, or food, perhaps.

“With the adults dead they will starve for certain,” Uthvir notes, drawing a knife.

Thenvunin’s hand reaches out, reflexive, and bars the hunter from moving closer to the nest.

“A quick cut is kinder,” Uthvir says, glancing at him.

“I have been looking for something new for my gardens,” Thenvunin asserts.

Uthvir’s expression turns amused.

“And you think biting little pack lizards might fit the bill?” the red hunter asks.

“That remains to be seen,” he replies, simply. But Uthvir backs off, at least, and says nothing further as Thenvunin kneels and examines the nest. It is soil, mostly, with some soft fungus native to the area. After a moment he takes off his cloak - silently mourning for the damage the chartreuse silk is likely to suffer - and gathers up some of the soil and mushrooms into the center of it. He then deftly plucks up the hatchlings, avoiding snapping little jaws that seek to make a meal of his fingers, and lifts them securely into his arms.

He turns, and meets the surprised stares of the rest of the party.

“What?” he demands, voice snapping.

Curiosity huffs.

“If Thenvunin gets lizards, I want bats!” she insists.

 

~

 

They need to be fed mushed up raw meat all the time, and they _ruin_  Thenvunin’s clothes about as unapologetically as Uthvir does. He cannot wear any jewellery at all while he is rearing them; or at least not until they get old enough to learn not to jump up and try to bite the shiny dangly things off of him. Really, he should have deemed the whole effort a wash after the first day; far more trouble than it’s worth.

After a month they are quite large, and able to chase mice on their own, though they still follow Thenvunin absolutely everywhere. They prove smart enough to learn very basic commands - ‘stay’ absolutely does not work, but they figure out ‘do not bite that’ with variable success, as well as ‘come here’ and ‘put that down’. Which are the pertinent commands at the outset. Attempts to leave them in the safety of his rooms fail utterly. They make the most forlorn, panicked screeches he’s ever heard in his life if they lose sight of him; though they’re usually content to run the length of a garden or chamber as long as he’s within ‘safe’ range. And they master house training appreciable fast. The species seems predisposed to burying its waste anyway, so the little beasts prefer to go out-of-doors and in garden soil.

The halla tender does not appreciate their habit of jumping at the fences, though.

They tolerate people who are not Thenvunin… well enough. Most are treated to wary indifference, and hostility tends to manifest in the form of hissing and demonstrative snapping. It is mostly for show, though. Any time a stranger gets too close, all three dart behind Thenvunin’s legs, screeching unattractively and acting very much as if they are under attack.

They’re a work in progress. All signs point towards it being a dismal failure, though.

Thenvunin names the biggest one Commander Stripes, the least hideous one Hissy, and the tiniest one is Uthvir Junior.

 

~

 

Thenvunin is _exhausted._

Two months into deepstalker rearing, and the trio has begun to - as near as he can tell - _teeth._  It is also possible that they have simply lost their minds, but given the status of their hideous little mouths, he is fairly confident that teething is to blame. The troubles first began when Commander Stripes began gnawing on his furniture. The usual discouragements worked, at first, but only for brief periods of time. After a few days, all of the deepstalkers began chewing on anything that held still for long enough.

Thenvunin has been at his wits end. He has given them bones, he has given them wooden blocks, he has given them everything short of _iron,_  and then his only reluctance has been worry over causing them permanent dental harm. They cannot sleep. The discomfort in their mouths wakes them after a few hours, without fail, and they begin shrieking and hunting down things to bite at again. Soothing spells seem to work, for a time, but they wear off as soon as Thenvunin loses consciousness. He has been surviving off of hour-long naps, waking when his charges do, and he feels perilously close to some sort of mental collapse.

If they were another sort of animal - if they had no imprinted on him so thoroughly - then he could simply ask for help. But he is in a den full of hunters, and the deepstalkers shriek whenever he is gone, and he does not trust anyone in this palace not to kill them as soon as his back is turned anyway. Very probably he _should_ let them be done away with at this point.

Hissy bumps up behind his knees, chewing on one of his vambraces and looking as miserable as he feels.

The little creature’s head shoots up when the door opens, though. A moment later, there is a flurry of shrieks, and three deepstalkers lunge beneath the couch he is sitting on as Uthvir strides in.

Carrying a sack.

The hunter closes the door behind him.

Thenvunin bristles. 

“If you are here to sate some - some rampant carnal desire, you are out of luck. I am far too exhausted for your antics, Uthvir. And if you have come to try and tell me to get rid of my charges, I will reiterate what I told your colleague - these developmental phases are perfectly normal and to be expected by talented animal… animal…”

Uthvir raises their brows.

“Wrangler?” they suggest.

“That was what I was about to say!” Thenvunin snaps.

Oh, his mind is turning to absolute _mush._ He cannot think straight. He cannot focus. In point of fact he feels perilously close to tears, which would just be absolutely _perfect right now._

He glares, instead, and tries to look regal. It is a bit difficult, considering his tunic has chewed sleeves, but he makes a sincere effort to try and pass that off as purposeful dishevelment.

Uthvir walks into the middle of the room, and empties the sack they are carrying onto the floor.

Thenvunin makes a sound of outrage and reflexively lifts his legs away from the jumble of bones that come tumbling out of it, and clatter to the floor. He knows hunters do not ascribe to valid aesthetics, but this is exceptionally hideous even by _their_ standards.

“What are you doing?!” he demands.

“Helping,” Uthvir informs him, neatly wrapping the empty sack around one arm. Almost at once, the deepstalkers dash out from underneath the couch. Thenvunin is given to the brief concern that they are about to attack Uthvir for being impolite. Which, though perfectly understandable and even endearing, would be unwise. 

But the sounds they are making are their happy, excited noise. And they do not rush the hunter, but rather fall upon the bones. Which, Thenvunin notes, are very thick, and covered in a thin but distinctive sheen of frost.

“What are those?” he asks, blinking and bewildered.

“Frozen bronto bones,” Uthvir informs him. “I asked around. The little beasties teethe in the wild, after all. Apparently they usually congregate in icy caverns and gnaw on some of the corpses there at around about this time.”

Uthvir Junior lets out a happy peep as it gnaws on a bone twice the size of its head, chewing and drooling while its tiny eyes blink in blissful relief. Its namesake looks smug, of course.

Thenvunin is not nearly coherent enough for this.

“Why?” he asks.

“Obviously it helps with the teething,” Uthvir tells him, slowly.

“No, I mean, why did you go to the trouble?” Thenvunin wonders.

They shrug.

“You _did_ name one after me. It would be an embarrassment at this point if they were all slaughtered for unruly behaviour,” the hunter reasons.

As the gentle sounds of relieved peeping and chewing fill the room, Thenvunin decides that he does not care if that is actually the real reason or not. He slumps against the couch, decorum momentarily abandoned in the face of overwhelming relief.

“Thank you,” he says, sincerely.

Uthvir actually shifts a bit from foot to foot, and glances away.

“Not a problem. You will have to get more yourself, though. And I have no idea how long those will last,” the hunter says.

Then without further ado, they stalk straight back out of the room.

Thenvunin lets out a breath, and promptly falls asleep.


	14. Gratuitous Time Travel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Uthvir somehow manages to travel back in time and deflower a virginal Thenvunin because I have no self-control and people asked for it.

Virgins are not ordinarily to Uthvir’s tastes; but in this case, they think, they will make an exception. It is far too tempting not to; having landed here and now, so unexpectedly, with a beautiful and untouched young Thenvunin right in the very camp they had first managed to reach.

Reaching forward, they take Thenvunin’s chin in their hand, and draw the young elf in for a kiss. Gently, at first. When they nip at his bottom lip, he draws in a sharp breath of surprise, and pulls back a little.

“Did you bite me?” he asks, consternated. Lifting a hand, he presses it to the small droplet of blood welling up.

Uthvir tilts their head.

“Blood can heighten the sensations of the physical world,” they explain. “And a little bit of pain, properly used, can compliment pleasure. Do you dislike the sensation?”

Thenvunin licks his lip, and frowns.

“It does not seem appropriate to bite someone when you are… when you are not fighting them and trying to hurt them,” he asserts.

“My apologies, then. I shall mind my teeth,” Uthvir promises, and when Thenvunin does not pull away, they move in and press another kiss to his lips. They drag the blood they have already drawn across the surface of his mouth, heightening the sensations for him; the press of lips, the rush of sensitive nerves. The build of arousal from the careful stimulus. They run their tongue over his split skin, and he shudders.

When Uthvir pulls back again, his eyes are wide; his pupils are blown, and his mouth is parted.

“I… I suppose, if you were careful… a few bites might not be so bad,” Thenvunin ventures.

“That is very generous of you,” Uthvir says, and moves in to lavish attention onto his neck for a while instead. They are surprised, a bit, when Thenvunin lets out a breathy moan at the contact. He reaches for them, too, closing his hands over their shoulders. Not that Uthvir can feel much, past the armour. They nip his neck, and drag their tongue across the soft skin; and rest their own hand by his jugular, nails idly tracing down it. Thenvunin swallows, and shudders a bit as they move to his collarbone. He shifts until his legs are further apart - nearly squirms, really - and gasps with Uthvir sucks a bruise into the base of his neck.

“Listen to you; such delightful sounds you make,” the hunter purrs approvingly. 

Thenvunin tightens his hold on them.

“I… um… oh,” he gasps, as Uthvir begins unfastening his clothing. “I s-suppose we should… ah…” He trails off as the hunter gets his shirt open, and whatever thought he had been about to have dies in a rush as Uthvir closes their mouth over one of his nipples. They lick and suck relentlessly at the sensitive nub of flesh, as Thenvunin tangles a hand in their hair, and drags in rapid, ragged breaths.

Fair’s fair; they turn to give some attention to the other one, and slowly but surely coax the young soldier onto his back. At length they draw their mouth back up to his lips; they are slackened with his heavy breaths, as Uthvir delves between them, treating him to a kiss that is hungrier than the last.

Oh, Uthvir wants to tear the clothing from him, now. To hear him gasp in shock and arousal; to hear how he might react, so unbridled and unbroken as he is. But they restrain themselves to undressing him with more care; to dragging gasps from him in other ways. They strip him bare, and press kisses down his stomach. Over his thighs. They bite their own lip, hard enough to draw blood, as Thenvunin stares at them with his arms flung over his head; his expression blown apart by these sensations.

Uthvir draws their nails down over his hips, and then grips them. They let out a low, possessive growl, before they take him into their mouth. Licking their own blood in a stripe across him, and doing to him here what they had done before with their kiss. Pulling up every ounce of feeling they can as they slowly drag tongue and lips over him.

Thenvunin _howls._

His hips buck and his flesh twitches. He kicks, a bit, and Uthvir has to move around somewhat to hold him down better. But they do. They pin him in place as they focus on their task, dragging another long, slow, scintillating touch up his length. They move their thumbs in slow circles across his skin, and go carefully, trying to keep from setting off that hair trigger he has, even as they seek to utterly overwhelm him.

All things considered, he lasts longer than they expect, before spilling into their mouth. They wipe their mouth and look up at him, and find that he’s thrown an arm over his eyes. His thighs are trembling through the aftershocks, and his skin is flushed straight down to his chest.

There are tears on his cheeks.

But he does not appear to be distressed; just overcome.

Still. Uthvir reaches up, and pulls his arm back. Checking to make sure. A distinctly dazed look greets him.

“You… I…” Thenvunin manages, shakily.

“Would you like to taste yourself?” Uthvir asks, their mouth hovering just shy of his.

They are expecting his expression to twist in disgust, while interest flashes in his eyes; but in fact, only the latter happens. And they are bit surprised when Thenvunin only licks his lips, and then inches forward, pressing a sweet, tentative kiss to them. They coax him open again, and drag their tongue across the roof of his mouth.

He shudders, and clutches them.

When they pull back, he twists a bit.

“You have not even undressed,” Thenvunin notes.

“No matter,” Uthvir says, with a shrug. “I am still enjoying myself.”

That comment makes the young soldier’s blush deepen quite prettily. Uthvir finds themselves taken with the picture he makes; and the impulse to overwhelm him in a different way prods at them. They move to nuzzle at his temple, and nip at his ear.

“How charming you are,” they whisper. “So strong and yet so sweet. I could eat you up, inch by inch, and never tire of your sighs, and gasps, and moans. Do you know how much I revel in every sound you make? In watching you come undone, and fly free? You are _stunning_ like this.”

“I… I am?”

The shaky response brings them back to reality; to the sudden awareness that this Thenvunin is young, and new, and has never been touched like this even remotely before. Uthvir pulls back, and feels a sudden and unexpected surge of protectiveness strike through them. They hold his gave for a moment, and then kiss him as gently as they know how.

“You are,” they say, leaning more fully into him.

Thenvunin lets out a shuddering breath.

“You can have me,” he says. “I mean… I know you are of a higher rank than I am. So you… well…”

Uthvir tries to figure out what he is driving at, and comes up short.

“Rank?” they prompt.

Thenvunin does not quite meet their gaze.

“Sethtaren… explained. The elves with higher rank, they get… they can… he said it usually hurts, being on the bottom, but… you said sometimes the pain feels good, and… well, the biting was not intolerable…”

Uthvir’s brows climb up and up, and suddenly that protective urge they are feeling hardens into a knife-like edge. Thenvunin is nervous again. Not quite afraid, but the air around him betrays a certain degree of anxiety.

“Pain can be used to enhance pleasure, but that is not the same as a partner who derives _their_  pleasure from _your_  pain.”

No. That is a different matter entirely.

They are growling, they know. They are hard and sharp, and Thenvunin is looking at them a little wide-eyed as they grip him possessively to themselves. Rank. Of course. Even among Mythal’s people, and even here and now, there are naturally those who do what they will to whomever is beneath them.

And Thenvunin has not yet reached any lofty heights.

“I will show you,” they decide.

But they do not move. Not straight away. It is only when Thenvunin nods that they go. They bid him wait, and they right their own clothing a bit, before asking him if he has what they need. Unsurprisingly, he does not. Uthvir sets out into the darkened camp, then, moving through nearby tents with their uncommon talent for stealth. _Sethtaren_  has nothing suitable either. Uthvir contemplates lighting his tent on fire; but that would almost certainly grind the night’s activities to a halt.

 _Later,_  they decide.

Eventually, though, they do find what they’re looking for; a small carafe in one of the commanders’ tents. They take it, with a short nod at the sleeping bedrolls, and then carry it back to their own.

Thenvunin is touching himself when they return.

As soon as he realizes they are back, his hand flies away from its current activities, and he looks down, shame-faced.

“Please, do not stop on my account,” Uthvir says.

“I… I was just… you were gone a long time, and I…”

“Thenvunin,” the hunter interrupts. “We are not currently playing the sort of games where one person is not permitted to touch themselves. And if we were, breaking the rules can be half the fun. The whole idea here is for you to be aroused. Do not be embarrassed by it; it is only a sign of success.”

Thenvunin looks at them a moment, and then nods.

With a nod back, Uthvir sucks in a breath, and takes off yet more of their armour. Thenvunin’s gaze tracks over their movements, until they have stripped down to softer layers. Then they take up the oil, and a spare pillow, and start arranging him. The anxiety comes back as they get him into his stomach, with his legs spread and backside propped into the air.

Uthvir runs a hand carefully down his back.

“Relax,” they say. “If I do something you do not like, tell me so. As I said, the point is enjoyment.”

They trail their hands down over the firm flesh of his ass, and the backs of his legs. They draw careful touches over his testicles, fondling the soft skin there, and part him only slowly. His anxiety rises and falls, as if he is inhaling and exhaling his various fears as they go along. Uthvir finds it is almost entrancing. They pay more attention to the air than anything else, really, as they go through the familiar motions of working the oil into him, and pressing careful fingers to his entrance. The muscles flutter around their touch. This is one act that should never, ever be rushed, they know. Even when healed, the duration can be astonishingly painful and unpleasant.

They start with their smallest finger; and brush their touch over the sensitive flesh behind Thenvunin’s cock. He is quiet, at first. That is somewhat concerning, until Uthvir hears a distorted, muffled moan, and realizes that he has stuffed half his pillow into his mouth.

“I put up silencing wards,” they say. “You can make as much noise as you would like.”

Thenvunin keeps with the pillow, though, at first; until Uthvir manages to slip a second finger into him, at least. Then he pulls off of it and lets out a broken breath, as he is stretched with slow care. He clutches the pillow with his hands instead, then, while questing fingers press against his internal walls, and curl towards the places that Uthvir knows will make him squirm.

And he does.

And he _sings._

Before long he is a mess of moaning and groaning, pressing back onto Uthvir’s hand, his legs twitching and twisting around as he seems to struggle with the sensations in him. When Uthvir bites their thumb, and then presses it to his soft, quivering flesh, Thenvunin cries out and comes for the second time in a sticky rush.

Satisfied, they withdraw their touch, and find a rag to wipe their hands clean with.

Thenvunin draws in several deep, shaky breaths. He shifts a bit; spreading his legs out even wider, in fact, and then burying his head into the pillow.

Uthvir leans up, and runs a careful hand over the back of his head.

“Alright?” they ask.

Thenvunin nods.

“You can do it now,” he says.

Uthvir raises an eyebrow.

“Do what now?” they ask.

There’s a pause. Then Thenvunin turns, twisting his head towards him.

“You can… you… with… you can, put it inside me?” he says, hesitantly. “If… you do have one, right?”

The hunter blinks, and settles back a bit.

“Certainly; among other things, as the situation calls for it. But unless you have a particular desire for it, I am quite comfortable keeping it where it is,” they say, before reaching over and petting his hair a bit more. 

The young soldier just looks baffled.

“You have not even…” he says, staring at Uthvir’s crotch. Then he flushes and ducks his head into the pillow again. “Am I not to your liking?” he wonders.

“You are very much to my liking. Why else would I be doing this?” Uthvir says.

“I do not know,” Thenvunin admits.

Slowly, the hunter trails their touch down his shoulders. He really is quite beautiful, when it comes to it. There is a surprising amount of muscle on him. Firm and pleasant, and just a little more prominent than it should be. Especially right here. 

Taken by a whim, Uthvir leans forward, and presses their lips to the unblemished skin along his spine.

Thenvunin shivers a bit.

“Can you not do it without hurting me?” the young soldier wonders. “I can handle _some_  pain, you know. I am not weak.”

“Not weak, no. But there are some places where _everyone_ is fragile,” Uthvir counters. “However, it should not hurt, as long as it is done properly.”

Thenvunin twists around a bit to look at them.

“Then you do not want to?” he guesses.

Uthvir smirks.

“Oh, I think I would enjoy it very much,” they say.

He shivers again. Then he seems to consider the matter for a few moments. At length, he ducks his head, and angles his hips towards Uthvir.

“You can do it,” he repeats.

“So you have mentioned,” the hunter says.

Another pause.

“…I would like you to,” Thenvunin admits.

“Now,  _that_  is irresistible,” Uthvir declares. They reward him with a nip to one ear, and then move back to the area of interest; they add more oil, first, working him open further still, and waiting until he is aroused again. They tease him until he is panting and pressing back onto their fingers again, and they can move easily inside him; and then they start adding yet more oil, until he is as slick as can be.

Thenvunin’s impatience remains a thing of beauty, really.

When they are at last satisfied, they free themselves from their clothing; erect with interest. They slide into Thenvunin slowly, feeling his muscles tremble around them. Sinking easily into his warm, wet depths. The sensation is exquisite; just shy of overwhelming. They take a moment to wrestle with it, as they bury their own sensitive flesh into him.

“Ah,” Thenvunin says. As Uthvir pulls back, and then sinks back in, his hips rock. Despite their best efforts, it is not long before they find themselves picking up the pace a little, grinding into Thenvunin as they slide in and out of him with very little resistance. It is almost _too_  slick, almost too hard to get any grip of sensation, but they find that is more than adequately compensated for by the gasping breaths that are escaping their partner. 

And the _pleas._

 _“_ Oh, please,” Thenvunin moans. “Please, yes, take me. Take me. It feels so good.”

Uthvir gives a particularly ragged thrust at that. They let themselves expand a bit, calling up a few tricks from the Dreaming, and igniting sparks of magic over exposed stretches of skin. Thenvunin’s back arches, and he lets out a cry and comes for the third time.

It is dizzying. Uthvir presses him back down, pinning his arms to his side and biting the bite of his shoulder as they fuck into him. As Thenvunin trembles with the aftershocks of his pleasure, and squirms, and gasps their name.

When they stiffen and come inside of him, it is with a low moan that he echoes.

For a moment, there is silence broken only by the ragged sounds of their breaths.

Then Thenvunin struggles at their hold. A little dazed and a little concerned, Uthvir lets him go, only to find themselves being clumsily kissed. Thenvunin turns in their arms and takes their face in his hands, and proceeds to try and inhale them; or so it seems.

“I think that was one of the most undignified things I have ever done,” Thenvunin gasps against their lips, when he pulls back. He sounds only a little horrified, though. Nowhere near the screeching meltdown of panic and denial that Uthvir would expect of future-Thenvunin.

It is almost a little jarring. They cannot say they _miss_  that reaction, precisely; but this subdued aftermath is definitely different.

As is all this Thenvunin-instigated affection.

“For sex, that was fairly dignified,” Uthvir assures him. “It is not an activity that lends itself towards decorum.”

Thenvunin caresses their face, and kisses them again. After a few moments, though, his eyelids begin to droop. He curls against Uthvir and pressing slackening kisses to them until he begins to drift off, all tangled and sticky and sated.

This is very strange, they decide.

Whoever thought time travel would be?


	15. Gratuitous Time Travel Continues

Uthvir has a lot to think about when they get back.

And one of the things they find themselves thinking about is Thenvunin.

The experience with his younger counterpart was certainly enlightening. In more departments than Uthvir might have expected, even. They have to… consider things. And reconsider them. It is a good thing, they suppose, that Thenvunin is not readily at hand immediately after their return.

It is several months, in fact, before they see him again. Not until he is assigned to tend to matters in Mythal’s Arlathan estate. They get wind of his arrival a day after his party takes up residence in the city, thanks to the rumour mill.

Uthvir considers.

And then they head through the city, and pay a visit to the estate.

The servants accept the reason for their visit and show them to the entryway easily enough. A few minutes later, Thenvunin arrives. The more familiar Thenvunin; with more age to his aura, more experience. A haughty expression fixed upon his face; a sureness to his step that is almost exaggerated. He is dressed in emerald green robes, today. They are covered in embroidered silver swans. His hair has been coiffed carefully into curls, with a branching hair piece woven through it. Pearls drip from the ends of it.

He looks at Uthvir, and scowls.

“What are you doing here, Uthvir?” he asks.

“I came to see you,” the hunter says, stalking intently towards him.

Thenvunin blinks. Then he glances hurriedly behind him, as if he expects to see the entirety of the household gathered just past the entryway; listening in. A moment later, his shoulders straighten. Up goes that chin again.

“I have no idea why you should pay me any particular visit. I suppose you are here on some errand for your lady,” Thenvunin asserts.

“No. I am here to see _you_ ,” Uthvir reiterates. They shift their aura deliberately, then, sending out a tentative press of inquiry. A question of feeling. Thenvunin jumps, as if startled, and his eyes widen in shock. His mouth opens, and then snaps closed again.

But something in the air around him _curls_  in towards Uthvir.

The hunter grins, and moves a hand out from behind their back. A single rose is in their grasp. Not an actual plant, of course; the petals are made of fine, faceted rubies, and the stem curls; sharp, glass thorns dot several of the edges. The leaves are like flat, crystal knives. The light catches in the gleaming surface of the bloom, and sends droplets of reflected red spilling across Thenvunin’s fine clothes and pale skin. They spin as Uthvir twirls their offering, and then extends it towards him.

Thenvunin stares. Stunned. His gaze darts down towards the rose, and then up to Uthvir’s face.

“You… I… you…” he says.

“Articulate as ever, I see,” Uthvir replies.

They wait.

Thenvunin’s fingers twitch. His hand moves towards the rose. But then he aborts the gesture, and folds his arms instead.

“I am… flattered by your interest, Uthvir. Naturally. But surely you must see that this would be a terrible idea. You are hardly the type for commitments; and I am not much in favour of embarking upon doomed endeavours,” he says. “Besides which, you are very far from being a suitable candidate for me.”

“No?” Uthvir says, raising an eyebrow. “I possess admirable rank, skills, and station. I am quite accomplished, and well-respected in most circles. It cannot be my manner that displeases you. Nor my appearance; or else, why welcome me into your bed at all?”

Thenvunin darts another hurried glance around, and makes a quieting gesture.

“Ah. I see,” Uthvir says, twirling the rose again. "Good enough for sex; not good enough for courtship. Well. Forgive me for the awkwardness.” 

They had anticipated this, of course. It is _their_  Thenvunin, after all. Though… not really ‘theirs’, perhaps. Still. The sting is surprising. It bites down deep, and seems for a moment to be more painful than the chance to discover otherwise was ever worth. They nod once, curtly, and withdraw their offering.

Or at least, they begin to.

Right when they are moving away, however, Thenvunin’s hand darts out. It closes over the thorny stem. At this awkward angle, one of the leaves rakes across the side of his forefinger; and two of the thorns bite into his palm. Thenvunin winces, but does not relinquish his hold.

Uthvir looks up at him.

For a moment, the air between them is perfectly still.

Thenvunin snatches the rose out of their unresisting grip, and moves it to a more comfortable hold in his other hand. He opens his mouth again; and then closes it again. His blood drips onto the floor.

Reaching out, Uthvir takes his injured hand, and whispers a healing spell. The small, neat cuts knit together quite readily. They do not scar.

“You may keep the gift, then, if you like it that much,” the hunter decides.

“Like it? I do not care for it in the least. It is ridiculous. What sort of courtship gift is sharp enough to cut your intended?” Thenvunin says, with a sniff. “I suppose you _would_  pick such a thing. Practically salivating at the thought of drawing my blood yet again, no doubt.”

Uthvir folds their own arms.

“I do not recall forcing it into your hands. Am I to be responsible for your poor grip and coordination now?” they ask, raising an eyebrow.

“There is not a single edge on this thing that is not designed to cut,” Thenvunin counters, holding up the rose.

“The petals are blunt,” Uthvir counters.

With a glance towards the hunter, Thenvunin reaches out, and runs his thumb experimentally over one ruby edge. He winces and withdraws almost immediately as his skin is split, and a droplet of blood wells up yet again.

“You vicious liar!” he snaps.

Uthvir smirks.

“Oh. I suppose I was mistaken,” they say. “My apologies. Here.” Reaching out, they grasp Thenvunin’s hand again. But this time, instead of sealing the wound with a word, they draw his thumb between their lips and lick it closed.

Thenvunin swallows, staring at them for a moment, before he snatches his hand back and abruptly looks around yet again.

“Fiend,” he hisses.

“So you have said; and yet it seems I am the one who is to be heartbroken,” Uthvir quips, with a heavily mocking air. As if they _could_  be heartbroken. Especially over such a trifle.

Thenvunin stalls again. Like a banner stuck against a wall, really; flapping against the wind, and almost moving towards something. And yet, pinned precisely in place at the same time. He really does look overdone, Uthvir thinks. How pleasant it would be, to pull those branches from his hair, and let those curls tumble down, and…

…And do what they are good at, they suppose.

They move forward, drawing closer to Thenvunin. Reaching up, they flick one of the pearls dangling from his hair, and watch it sway. Watch his throat bob, and his eyes drift towards their lips, before focusing in on their gaze again. He is frightened, they realize. It lingers in his eyes, and sinks behind the surface of the emotions he lets through.

This is scaring him.

Uthvir takes a step back.

“That was amusing,” they say lightly. 

Thenvunin sputters.

“Did you orchestrate this entire encounter just to - to _rile_ me?!” he demands.

The hunter winks, and turns away.

“Really, Thenvunin. Can you honestly imagine _me_  genuinely trying to court someone? Anyone at all? Do not be ridiculous. I am not meant for such soft-hearted things.”

No indeed.

Their mouth is dry. 

With a mocking wave, they abandon Thenvunin’s outraged calls, and make their way swiftly towards the exit.

All that consideration; and it seems all they could manage was a terrible idea.

What a shame.


	16. Gratuitous Time Travel, Flipside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein a Thenvunin who lost their virginity to a certain mysterious hunter meets their counterpart again in the future.

Thenvunin supposes it is only reasonable to assume that someone he had met only once, more than two thousand years ago, might not recognize him.

Even if they had sex together.

Even if it had been Thenvunin’s _first_  time having… well.

It certainly had not been Uthvir’s, of course, and it is not difficult to imagine that the ranking hunter is the sort of elf who might have left scores of trysts and lovers and one-time flings in their wake. Especially in the midst of a war. Thenvunin had been low-ranking - a mere soldier, at the time - and he supposes he has also changed quite a lot since then. 

“I think we might have met once, during the war,” he suggests to Uthvir, shortly after they have been re-introduced.

The hunter raises a brow, and seems to consider that notion carefully.

“Perhaps,” they concede. “If so, what of it?”

Nothing, Thenvunin supposes. Or not _necessarily_  anything, at least. But that night when he retires for the evening, he cannot help but think back to that tent, and those hands, and teeth. That voice, at once salacious and considerate, plying him with compliments and explanations that stood in stark contrast to the efforts of the only elf to previously attempt to pursue him.

He thinks of a firm cock thrusting into him, and feels a curl of embarrassment at the spike of arousal the memory summons. There have been plenty of other occasions since then, and Thenvunin knows full well that his first time was probably memorable by virtue of being his _first,_  but some part of him cannot help wondering if a repeat performance would be similarly… stimulating.

There is, of course, an obvious way to find out.

Thenvunin chooses the next day’s outfit with particular care. He needs something alluring, but not immodest. Something that will draw interest and admiration and compliment his figure well, without necessarily making it seem like he is _attempting_  to garner interest and admiration and attention for his figure.

…The purple vest, he thinks.

Yes.

With the flying golden ducks on it.

That one makes his waistline look spectacular, and his shoulders much less broad.

Pair it with the golden shirt with the sleeves that shine and ebb into the air like wisps. Revealing, by turns, tantalizing glimpses of his arms. He is a little more liberal with his jewellery than is customary, and wears a set of particularly well-fitted golden tights, and thigh-high boots.

There.

Perfect.

He exits his chambers. Tarensa, who is just leaving her own, glances at him. And then she looks at him again, and raises an eyebrow.

“One of the hunters, Thenvunin? Truly?” she asks.

He frowns, and raises his chin.

“I am certain I do not know what you mean,” he says.

“You are wearing the duck vest,” she replies.

“It is a vest that I own. Why should I not wear it?” he counters, sniffing disdainfully as he adjusts his sleeves.

Tarensa just shakes her head.

“It is better to keep such things within Mythal’s followers. Your interests could become conflicted by outside lovers,” she says.

Thenvunin rolls his eyes. Tarensa’s exceedingly insular standards on such things are well-recorded. The glance he gives her tells her as much, and it is her own turn, then, to raise her chin defiantly. Before she stalks off into the main chamber of the guest rooms.

Thenvunin double-checks his reflection, and then follows.


	17. Gratuitous Time Travel, Courtship

The thing about hunting is, one fails at it.

Often.

Uthvir knows this perfectly well. They are one of Andruil’s most skilled hunters, and they have come back from many hunts without a kill to their name. It is different, of course, when one is tracking the game that is seeded through Andruil’s forests to feed and entertain her people. Those beasts are easy prey; they are not meant to challenge any elf’s skill. Not truly. There is something to be said for taking down a particularly prize example, but only the greenest of hunters come back from such excursions empty-handed.

The true hunts - the challenging hunts - the ones for beasts far more dangerous than skittish prey animals, more valuable than any mundane creature… those are the ones where even the finest fail. Even Andruil sometimes comes back without her kill; though she is resilient enough and dogged enough to insist upon even pyrrhic victories, at times, to prevent such a thing.

Uthvir does not have that luxury. Their pride is not worth as much as Andruil’s. They know the taste of failure. It sits, heavy, at the back of their throat, and itches its way down their spine. Settles into the hollow spaces there, beneath scarred flesh, and makes the inside of their chest feel like it has rotted out.

Not pleasant, in other words. But familiar. Manageable. Pain of all kinds is a persistent companion to life. The sting of rejection presses into them. The bite of old words, and more dangerously, old fears, rise up from the depths. The cost of failure is the oily burn of self-loathing. The resurrection of wrathful ghosts. The struggle of self.

Uthvir retreats. They withdraw to their chambers. They seal themselves in there, and review the failures of their hunt. 

Ah, but the whole hunt was a destined failure from the outset, of course. It had been ridiculous optimism, at best, to think Thenvunin would ever really entertain such a proposition. The man cannot even stand to admit that he wants Uthvir to touch him, most days; to accept a courtship from them? Certainly not. Public acknowledgement of some sentiment towards them? Thenvunin can rarely even manage _private_  acknowledgement of the simplest desires.

The trip backwards changed things. But only for Uthvir.

Still.

It is no reason to abandon the hunt in its entirety.

There had been _something_.

There _is_  something. Something there, between the two of them. Possibly something unwise to pursue. Thenvunin might have the right idea, in this case. And yet they cannot help but think of that voice, uninhibited for once, begging them to come and unravel him. They cannot help but think of those lips, slack and warm and eager, kissing them in the aftermath. They feel a rush of heat; of visceral desire, to think of _this_  Thenvunin behaving anything like how _that_  Thenvunin had.

Even just a little.

They want it. They want to draw it out of him. But courtship was too much. Too swift and sudden, when they are the ones who have wrestled their epiphanies into order, but Thenvunin has not. 

So what, then?

How to lure their reluctant prey to them? Thenvunin does not care to pursue; and loathes to admit that he enjoys being pursued.

It will have to be a long campaign, they decide. Bit by bit. They will have seduce him thoroughly, in any and every way they possibly can. No sex, though. That would be too easy; that would give Thenvunin too much of what he wants. Slake too many thirsts, and make it all that much unlikely for him to step beyond his comforts. Uthvir will have to keep their hands to themselves, and find other means of enticement.

That… will be difficult.

What does Thenvunin like? Apart from sex. He likes compliments; he likes finery. And he likes birds. Possibly he likes fighting; Uthvir is not certain anyone could achieve that level of skill with a blade if they did not, at least a little bit.

Well. Uthvir is not without means.

Gifts and compliments, they decide, without proposition. Possibly it will prove another failure; they might only end up puffing Thenvunin’s ego before he invariably casts them aside again. But, Uthvir is a hunter. The possibility of failure must be weighed against the potential value of the prize.

Thenvunin is such a ridiculous prize.

The hunter lets out a sigh, and goes to retrieve some requisition forms.

 

~

 

Some things, of course, cannot reasonably requisitioned; and given Thenvunin’s rank, most of those things would be the items that might actually impress him as gifts. Like golden crested crane eggs, which Uthvir has to take a three week trip to track down in the wilderness of Ghilan’nain’s territory and retrieve. And then bring back - alive - in a padded, heated box.

Their reception upon returning from this ‘hunt’, is more confused than anything else. It is a success, but for so long a hunt there is no trophy to show for it, and they refuse to elaborate on the purpose. They keep the eggs where curious eyes will not see them, and no one will get the bright idea to try eating them, and thereby utterly waste Uthvir’s efforts. They have one of the city’s couriers - a jumpy little creature with Sylaise’s vallaslin on their face - deliver the parcel to Mythal’s estate, with careful instructions, and a note commending Thenvunin’s capability as a… person who keeps birds alive? Is there a particular term for that? Uthvir checks, and apparently there is.

Their next gift is slightly more sensible. They consult with Andruil’s most renowned weaponsmith for several weeks, presenting them with the challenge of a blade that is eminently functional, and yet still brimming with as many decorative pieces as could possibly be shoved into it. Uthvir has to jump through several hoops to obtain the proper permissions to have the materials traded to Mythal’s people, for when they actually present the gift. They hide as many of them as they can behind normal trade missives, which Andruil almost never looks at, and bribe three merchants. And the smith.

When it is done, Uthvir has the most ridiculous sword they have ever seen in their life. The blade is narrow, and fine, and looks like clear water trapped in glass. It cuts neatly, as sharp as any of Uthvir’s knives. A trail of opals lines the base of the weapon; the hilt is easy to grip, despite looking like woven platinum that curls into the shape of dancing swans. The pommel is a large, faceted amethyst. Flawless and richly coloured.

Uthvir sends it off with a note that commends Thenvunin’s skills far more than his tastes.

They wonder, as they do, how many pursuits like this Thenvunin has gotten in his life. He is high-ranking, accomplished, and quite pleasing to the eye; almost certainly _someone_  has tried to win him over before. Particularly if they never tried to take him to bed first.

The thought makes Uthvir reconsider their gifts through the lens of imagined comparisons to past suitors. They doubt anyone would give anything comparable to their offerings to the young soldier they had encountered. But plenty of years have passed between then and now. What might one high-ranking servant of Mythal pass to another? Plants? Uthvir attempted that with the rose. Statuary? Most probably. Works of art and music, and… jewellery?

Hmm.

There are creatures that twist along the coastline, near to hostile territory. Beasts of Ghilan’nain’s design, that live in the sea, but can race upon the land if so inclined. It is inadvisable to hunt them alone. Uthvir does, though. It is a messy, difficult challenge, to bring one down. The creatures are thick muscle and shimmering hide, and snapping jaws full of six rows of teeth; each twice the size of a normal elf. Their venom sacks are acrid and deadly, and they bleed blue when cut; and Uthvir comes back to more of the normal congratulations from this effort, as they drag three corpses behind them.

They claim only the bones from their kills, and leave aside the rest as tribute to their lady. The bones are the point, of course. Strong as metal, but beautiful and colourful as the inside of a abalone shell. They can be cut thin as wire, or carved into smooth, round pearls, and heat does not destroy their beauty. Uthvir takes the bones to the most skilled jeweller in Arlathan, who charges an obscene rate, but produces a delicate hair piece, and a necklace as fine as spider’s silk, and wrist cuffs that trail up the arms like patterned lace. Uthvir lets them keep the excess bones in exchange for a set of jade rings that catch their eye, as well.

They send these gifts off with a simpler note than most.

‘Not quite so pretty as your unadorned self.’

They run out of ideas for the moment, then; and falling upon simplicity, and the recommendation of the jeweller, they visit one of the city’s tailors. The woman knows Thenvunin, which is a distinct advantage. She seems quite taken with the notion of Uthvir’s pursuit of him, and grins unrepentantly at them as she helps them divine the object of a commission. 

“Thenvunin is very particular,” she says. “He likes to be fashionable. Unfortunately, he often chases trends with little regard for what actually suits him; he is very lucky he has features that take well to most styles. I have been _dying_  to dress that man in clothes that will look good on him in specific. There was a trend towards plunging necklines six hundred years ago that left me in raptures over him.”

Uthvir raises an eyebrow.

“Plunging necklines?” they ask.

“Oh yes,” the tailor tells him, with a gleam in her eye.

She begins drawing up several sketches, then, and admittedly… Uthvir cannot resist. They commission four separate outfits, in the end. One is an ensemble that the tailor assures them is very fashionable at the moment. It looks sufficiently Thenvunin-ish, they suppose. There are a lot of folded layers, and a cape lined with silver leaves, and fluttery sleeves. The second outfit is modelled after the jewellery Uthvir had commissioned. It is exceedingly shimmer-y and structured, with a high collar and lines that will apparently ‘soften’ Thenvunin’s shoulders.

Why he would want them softened, Uthvir has no idea; but the tailor assures him that this is a matter of some concern between Thenvunin and clothing.

The third outfit is by far Uthvir’s favourite, and also the least likely one for Thenvunin to ever actually wear, they suspect. It is a deep, rich red, made of thin material that is incredibly soft to the touch. The outfit is fitted tight, framed by a long, trailing skirt. And the neckline certainly plunges; as low as it can possibly go, whilst still maintaining some vague attempts at decency. Very, _very_ vague. Uthvir considers it for a long moment, and then makes another request for a fourth outfit in the same material, but in rich purple rather than red, and with the plunge running down the _back_  instead.

The tailor looks positively giddy.

Then she turns an assessing eye towards Uthvir.

“You would look stunning in something like this, too,” she tells them.

“Alas, the perils of being a hunter; too much exposed skin is more likely to invite a knife to it than an admiring gaze,” Uthvir quips back, and quickly changes the subject to the matter of payment and delivery.

The note they send this time is of a rather different tone from the previous ones; they take the liberty of describing, in detail, precisely how they would remove the clothes they are sending to Thenvunin from his person. It is just shy of blatantly lascivious. They blame the red outfit for the slight departure in their established tone.

So it goes. Uthvir receives confirmations that their gifts have been sent, but Thenvunin does not respond. They send him live plants from remote jungles, and more sharp-edged roses, and a set of armour made from the scales of a massive desert beast, and blankets spun from giant spider silk, and a tank full of beautiful live fish that drift like ghosts through colour-changing water, that Uthvir had to catch themselves from a lake on the border of Andruil’s territory.

And letters.

They are careful. They are mindful of their own reputation, and the possible repercussions of showing excessive interest in someone. No hunt is without its dangers, but they have become adept at navigating certain waters.

“Uthvir,” Andruil says to them, one evening, two years into their campaign to win over Thenvunin. “What is this I hear about you _courting_  someone?”

A few of the other hunters look over with interest. Uthvir looks up towards their lady. She has been _bored_  this evening. Always a dangerous state of affairs with her. Her visit to Ghilan’nain’s territory had been cut a month short, and rumour has it that a marital spat is to blame.

A perilous cocktail.

“Who would slander my reputation with such a claim?” they reply, pressing a hand to their chest.

“Oh, do not be coy, Uthvir,” Andruil says, gesturing for them to come and sit with her. “I am not deaf. You are trying to win over one of Mythal’s people, yes? Which one?”

No.

“I admit, I am confused. You think I would sincerely attempt to court someone? And not only that, but one of _Mythal’s_  people? Those fragrant flowers, best suited for tumbling through gardens?” they ask, raising their eyebrows.

“Hmm,” Andruil replies, raising her goblet and taking a long drink from it. “What is the name of that one you have dalliances with?”

“I have dallied with several of them,” Uthvir replies. “Though most frequently with… Thenvunin, I believe. Or perhaps Tiasa? I fear I did not keep a tally.”

“Thenvunin,” Andruil says, with a snap of her fingers. “That was the one I was thinking of. Is he any good?”

A low rumble of laughter passes through some of the nearby hunters.

Uthvir snorts.

“If you care for bed partners who lie there like a sack of bricks, you could not find better,” they assert. “I must admit, I think the number of times I have taken him to bed could be attributed more to morbid fascination than anything else. Possibly pity. He is more entertaining in his fits of pique and outrage than in any carnal setting.”

There is a murmur of agreement. A few quips from the other hunters. Thenvunin’s lack of skill in the bedroom is a source of great notoriety, nowadays.

Andruil gazes at them for a moment longer, and then shrugs.

“Well,” she says. “It hardly seems fair for you to have endured so many disappointing encounters. It has been some time since I favoured you with my attentions, has it not?”

Reaching over, she runs a hand down their back.

Uthvir stills.

“You are too kind and gracious, my lady. The impression of every encounter with you lingers; it feels as if it has hardly been any time at all.”

“And here I feel as though it has been too long since I had you,” she says, scraping her nails across their armour. Then she smirks. “Go to my chambers. I will be there shortly, to rectify matters.”

Nodding, Uthvir stands, and makes certain to smirk at anyone who catches their eye as they leave the dining hall.

Andruil’s gaze follows them out.

This… is not a desired outcome. And this evening, they think, will not go easily.

 

~

 

Uthvir stops sending gifts.

That was probably what tipped Andruil off, in the end. They’d done their best to use contacts in the city, and hide the uncommon frequency with which certain goods were being sent to Mythal’s people. But Andruil must have caught something. Likely, someone had put a whisper into her ear, and she had started keeping an eye out for signs.

The more they persist, the more likely that she will pinpoint the actual source of their interest; and while she may not be able to do much to Thenvunin under most circumstances, with Mythal’s protection around him, Uthvir is… fairly certain she would feel compelled to reiterate the specifics of just who their attention should be focused on. They would prefer to limit her doubts on that front. Reassuring her is not a pleasant task.

And besides, there had been… there was no response. None. The hunt, they suppose, is off. The risks outweigh the likelihood of reward. There is a difference between doggedness, and wasting energy and effort on a doomed pursuit.

This is the line, they suppose.

They stare at their reflection in the murky waters of their private bath. The dim light makes the shadows look deep and dark around their eyes. Their back aches, and once again, they taste failure clawing its way up to settle under their skin.

_What did you expect?_

Perhaps an encounter or so; Thenvunin, turning up on their doorstep, holding some gift or another. Demanding to know the meaning of this. Asking Uthvir what game they were playing, whilst Uthvir smirked and asked whatever did Thenvunin mean? Can they not send a simple gift and message to an old friend? And then Thenvunin would say that they were not friends, and Uthvir would ask what they _were_ , in that case, because certainly Uthvir was being _very friendly,_  sending all these gifts and packages and…

But of course, Thenvunin probably just destroyed them all or something.

Well.

Maybe not the crane eggs. That would be unlike him.

Uthvir lets out a broken laugh, and feels it burn.

_You know. You know better. Deep down…_

The air trembles. The dim lights die completely, and the entire chamber is plunged into blackness. Only the sounds of the water, slowly moving, and the ragged breaths in the hunter’s chest break the stillness.

_You know._

~

 

In the wake of still-rumoured-but-increasingly-likely marital squabbles, Andruil makes arrangements with her mother for Mythal to come and stay for several months in her southernmost estate. It is a very peaceful location. Uthvir enjoys the simplicity of the place, and the design of it; it has seen far fewer renovations from when it once served as a nomadic outpost than most regal holdings, and is comprised primarily of several buildings only loosely associated with one another.

This affords Uthvir the luxury of being able to keep some distance from the rest of the throng. With Andruil preoccupied with crying on her mother’s shoulder, it leaves them doubly set apart; and under circumstances, they are looking forward to the reprieve. Mythal’s party arrives in glittering splendour. Thenvunin is not wearing the armour Uthvir sent, nor carrying the sword; nor dressed in any of the fine clothes. But that is hardly surprising. The hunter goes through the required ceremonies, and abandons dinner at the first opportunity. They discuss matters with some of the other ranking hunters, and yield organizing the morning’s hunt to several of the others.

It is unlike them to do so, and it raises a few eyebrows. But they are tired. They will take this reprieve; they can always break a few limbs later if it becomes a matter of contention.

On the second day, they pass Thenvunin at the stables. The elf stiffens, as if bracing himself for something.

“Thenvunin,” Uthvir greets, with a nod, and carries on.

They do smirk, just a bit, though, at the stunned silence which follows in their wake.

What does Thenvunin expect, though? That they will drag him through the stables, and pin him to the side of some stall, and take him up against the wooden walls? Not that Uthvir _wouldn’t_ , under the right circumstances. But these are not the right circumstances. Perhaps he thought Uthvir would make some kind of scene, or launch some series of accusations at him. But that would hardly be fitting. Uthvir sent their gifts after Thenvunin rejected their suit. The lack of response had been a response in itself.

But then, Thenvunin has always seemed to have troubles with that concept.

They attend to the rest of their duties without incident, and sit with the hunters during their meal. Andruil talks with her mother, and Mythal’s people converse with the more sociable and curious of Andruil’s; with old friends who have not seen them for a time, and new acquaintances who have not yet been properly introduced. The presence of their lady’s mother makes the atmosphere more courteous than it generally is.

Uthvir withdraws as early as they reasonably may, even so. Solitude suits them best at the moment, they find.

They take the next morning’s hunt with some of Mythal’s lower-ranked followers, leading them off into the wilderness and making certain they do not get themselves killed or unduly injured. They are competent enough, in the sort of way that tame animals can make a decent showing in a day’s outing in the woods, but probably would not survive a lifetime there. Still, they bring back a few impressive items for the evening meal, and the midday one as well. Uthvir skips that, though, content to carry on with their duties.

They cannot miss the evening meal, with its vital hospitalities, however. The servants set up the fire pits, and they help carve some of the larger kills for them, before Mythal’s group begins to pour into the dining hall. Andruil is, mercifully, not in attendance; she had received a message from Ghilan’nain that afternoon, and locked herself into her chambers in a fit of stormy discontent that Uthvir was pleased to have been absent for; and not subsequently summoned to attend, either.

The room goes quiet.

They look up, and discover why.

Mythal has arrived. She is resplendent, as one would expect of an evanuris, in a crimson gown that clings to her curvature like a lover’s caress, and gold and ruby jewels; some set, gleaming, into her hair. Others glinting from the many rings and bracelets she has decorated herself with.

Nearly as eye-catching at her attendants. 

Tarensa is clad in a red gown of her own. Humbler and slightly less adorned, but no less graceful. The wolf Mythal favours so has adopted a suit of crimson himself, though less provocative than the others’ outfits; the hints of golden armour make him look more the part of watchful guard dog. And Thenvunin…

Thenvunin is in the outfit.

 _The_  outfit.

It looks far better on him than Uthvir had imagined, actually. The fabric clings to his form. The trailing skirt adds a fluidity and elegance to an image that otherwise might seem too sparse, or subtle. The open front looks near painted on to him, as the fabric leaves his chest and navel, and the soft skin of his abdomen bared to the eye. A necklace of garnets and gold rests upon his bared skin, with matching earrings glittering in the firelight.

Uthvir stares.

It is a force of effort, somehow, not to cross the room, and drag Thenvunin straight from it; just like the presumptuous, insatiable creature that the man has always accused them of being. The one thing Uthvir had been sure would have been discarded, even if all other gifts were kept… and he is wearing it.

Here.

Now.

In Andruil’s halls.

Mythal sweeps through, and Uthvir moves swiftly to claim the seat next to Thenvunin at the high table. One of the other hunters, who had kept it the past few evenings, takes one look at them and immediately moves. Mythal is in a rare mood, it seems; or perhaps she is simply freer when one of her children is not in attendance. She flirts with many of the ranking hunters who crowd around this unexpectedly fiery group. Tarensa, too, earns her fair share of admirers. The wolf gets a fair few, but he is obviously uninterested, and less interesting in turn than the other three in the group; and Thenvunin…

“My, my,” one of the ranking hunters - Halama - offers, as she passes behind him. “Where has Thenvunin gone? And who is this alluring creature that has replaced him?”

Thenvunin makes a face.

Uthvir feels an unaccountable surge of relief at seeing his features twist into their familiar, haughty disdain.

“I am certain I do not know what you mean,” he sniffs. “Nor do I care for your tone.”

“No? But that outfit of yours just _invites_  it,” the huntress says.

“Halama,” Uthvir growls. A low warning, with more snarl to it than they had intended.

It works, though. She withdraws almost immediately.

Thenvunin glances at them, and then swiftly raises his goblet and drinks from it.

Uthvir swallows.

“You kept it,” they note, very quietly, as Mythal draws attention by offering one of the rubies in her hair to one of the younger huntresses. There is much cheering and insinuation over the gift.

Thenvunin stiffens a bit.

“It is a very expensive material. And if I had not, it would have been difficult to coordinate with the rest of the attendants this evening. Wardrobe versatility is important,” he says. Then he shifts, slightly. “Though it could have been less…”

His gaze darts down towards his bared navel, and then swiftly up again.

Leaning forward just a bit, Uthvir moves their hand under the table. They trace the open edge of the ‘neckline’, drawing the side of their nail gently down to where the fabric closes, and barely avoids utter indecency.

“You wear it well,” Uthvir says, voice low.

Thenvunin shifts.

“Retract your hand,” he hisses; though he makes no move to grab Uthvir’s wrist, or nudge them away himself.

They do withdraw the touch, though. It is such an evening where they feel no compunctions about staring at Thenvunin, however, ignoring their food as they watch him, until he is fairly squirming beneath their gaze. Until the red fabric beneath the table has begun to tent distinctly upwards.

“Did you keep all of the gifts?” Uthvir wonders, quietly, after several minutes of this.

Thenvunin glances at them.

There is a very distinctive hesitancy to him. He takes another long drink from his goblet, and then refills it before answering.

“They were very valuable,” he says.

“Did you like them?” they ask; and they do not care for the tremulous note that creeps, uninvited, into their own tone. Thenvunin’s hand stills on the table. His brows furrow, and he takes another drink.

“Anyone would like them. You actually managed to obtain items of quality, that were largely appropriate as gifts, no less. How you did it, I will never know.”

Uthvir snorts, and then laughs.

“Effort, Thenvunin. And means,” they say. Their gaze traces over him again. “It was almost all worth it just to see you wear that. Please, tell me your lady brought a purple gown as well.”

Thenvunin sniffs.

“Purple is out of fashion, at the moment,” he declares.

Uthvir claps a hand to their chest.

“No! I am aghast. Not purple!” they exclaim. “No wonder you kept my gifts. I do believe fully half your wardrobe is some shade or another along those lines.”

“I have plenty of variety in my closet, I do not need your…” Thenvunin begins, and then stalls. “…I do not _need_  your ‘gifts’, but certainly, of course, in this instance one of them was helpful.”

He empties his goblet again.

“Do not get drunk in that outfit in this hall,” Uthvir recommends. “It is hard enough chasing the others off of you as it is.”

“I hardly need you to chase others off of me,” Thenvunin says, disdainfully. “You are the most worrisome creature in this room anyway. You have already put your hands upon me.”

“Should I not?” Uthvir wonders. This, they suppose… if nothing else works, at least there is this. This strange, obnoxious, entertaining back-and-forth. They had missed it, throughout their attempts at ‘proper’ pursuit, they realize. 

“Of course you should not!” Thenvunin snaps. “Though I _hardly_  expect propriety to stop you. I am only grateful you have not done anything worse, perched there as you are, like some sort of erotic vulture.”

Uthvir raises a brow.

A slow grin spreads across their face.

“Did you call me an _erotic vulture?”_  they demand, inexplicably delighted.

“No. Of course not,” Thenvunin says. “You imagined that.”

With a sly look, Uthvir leans in closer to him, moving so that they are practically hip-to-hip at the table. Thenvunin goes still as they slide a hand over his thigh, and bring their lips to his ear. He smells like roses. Fresh, flowering roses. Not overpowering; just the tiniest bit.

“If you want me to touch you, you need only ask,” they say.

The brief flare of inquiry from their aura is not intentional. It is brief, but they are so close that they do not quite realize what they are doing until it has already happened. A soft note that slides between them; and Thenvunin’s own response curls into it again. Only, close as they are, the brief flutter of reciprocation feels more like a hunger. Grasping at what Uthvir has to offer as if it is a branch over the head of a drowning man.

Thenvunin goes nearly as red as his outfit.

“Stop it,” he says.

And there, too, is the fear again.

Uthvir looks a him a moment.

Then they pull back.

There is silence, for a moment. Thenvunin drinks more. Uthvir makes some pretence at eating, before giving up again and leaning against their hand, staring at Thenvunin in the firelight. At the sour look on his face, and the way he shifts in his seat, and darts glances towards them and then swiftly away again.

The sigh that escapes them is nearly as unexpected as everything else this evening. It is barely a breath, there and gone again, but Thenvunin looks at them as if startled. 

They turn away from him at last, and down their own glass of bloodwine.

It burns.

All of it, Uthvir thinks - all of it does.


	18. Gratuitous Time Travel, Courtship - Thenvunin's POV

The rose is pretty.

And in the end, with the matter of… Uthvir’s ridiculous and utterly inappropriate sense of humour set aside, Thenvunin feels there are no worrying implications to keeping it. After an assessment of the decor in his room, he determines it would look best on his bedside table, where the light can hit it just so in the morning and make the colours in it shine.

He gets a stand for it.

He drifts off to sleep, and dreams of arms curled around him. A warm figure resting at his back. Affection coiled against his skin like some great, sated serpent. Lips press to the shell of his ear. A low voice whispers his name.

He wakes up in the moment and feels a rush of unease.

Dreams.

Such unruly, random, and bizarre things.

He complains about his poor night’s sleep in the morning. Pride makes some patronizing suggestion about meditation that he promptly ignores, instead going about his business and trying to put the thought from his mind. It is all Uthvir’s fault, of course. That absurd… _proposition_  they had made. A farse, of course. As if Thenvunin had ever invited any of their attentions; as if he would welcome that kind of pursuit.

The hunter is probably laughing at him right now. 

Of all the ridiculous impropriety…

Thenvunin is a mature and reasonable adult, however, and he most assuredly puts the matter from his mind, and does not dwell on it at all. He is definitely not still thinking about the issue when the crate arrives.

A crate full of live _golden crane eggs._

Thenvunin stares at them, shocked. He has been trying to acquire these for years. No one has them. No one ever has them. They almost never survive transit from the wilds, and they are rare enough and very hard to come by. It has been months since he made any inquiries on the subject; and he is certain that if someone had come by even the hint of some, he would have heard of it long before an actual _box of eggs_  was delivered to his door.

He acts, as soon as the shock has faded; they need an incubator, and an assessment, and he will have to prepare for the hatchlings at once. He is so busy tending to the eggs themselves that is not until several hours later that his mind turns back to the mystery of how they came to him.

There is a note with the crate.

 _My dearest Thenvunin_ , it begins, in sharp, elegant script. _I saw these, and thought of you. I also thought of breakfast, but on balance, I think I prefer the notion of pleasing you more. Given your considerable skills as a bird keeper, I have no doubt that these creatures will fare far better under your care than anyone else’s._

_Yours,_

_Uthvir._

Thenvunin gapes at the letter.

What?

…What?

 _Uthvir?_  Uthvir sent him the eggs? Alive? And they just… happened upon them? No one happens upon golden crane eggs! They are the goal of expeditions, the treasure of the illegal pet trade, they are not simply _found_  like a sparrow’s nest in a tree.

Thenvunin heads for his desk and immediately begins penning a letter demanding to know how Uthvir came by these eggs.

And then he stops. No. He will go and get answers from Uthvir in person, he decides. The eggs should be fine enough for the time being; Tutheneras can watch them, and will probably be ecstatic to, in fact. So deciding, Thenvunin gets up, and finds the menagerie’s tender, and then makes ready for a trip to the city. He dresses fashionably, of course. It is a hasty outing, but he makes it to the road to Andruil’s Arlathan holdings in record time.

He is going to demand answers from Uthvir. What is the meaning of this? Where did they get those eggs, and what do they expect in return for them? Thenvunin is not to be bought.

His steps slow.

He is not to be bought, but if Uthvir demands some… some carnal recompense for those eggs, he supposes…

It flashes through his mind, then, that brush of emotional inquiry. The feel of it curling through the air towards him. Around him. He shivers. In distaste, of course, in distaste. He had only reacted… _positively_  to that inquiry because it was so unexpected. It had caught him off-guard, and so he had not been able to prepare for it, and he had just…

He stops walking.

_What if they do it again?_

No.

No, no, no, no, that would be too impolite. Too presumptuous. Thenvunin could not stand it.

He turns, and heads away; and then turns back, because why should this deter him? But then he feels something in his chest twist, like a knife of dread and anxiety and other, confused feelings, and he turns away again. This is Uthvir’s fault. That beast has gone and gotten them all… all churned up, they have upset his equilibrium, and done it on purpose, no doubt. 

The eggs, he decides. They sent those eggs knowing full well this would happen. They _wanted_  him to come to them, while he is still unsettled, so they could destabilize him further. Confuse him further.

Well.

Thenvunin will just have to disappoint them.

He turns away, and heads back home.

 

~

 

The gifts persist.

So do the notes.

Thenvunin stares at the most beautiful sword he has ever seen in his life, and then at the note which came with it. The script is the same sharp, elegant hand as that which had come with his beloved crane eggs - eggs which have since become treasured hatchlings.

_Dear Thenvunin,_

_You are a fine fighter, even if you prize appearances over success at times. Hopefully, this blade will no longer require you to choose. It is not the least bit to may tastes. But you are._

_Yours,_

_Uthvir._

Thenvunin stares at the note, and then at the blade. He should send it back, he thinks. Send it back with a sternly worded letter demanding that Uthvir stop… stop… _doing this._  But somehow he cannot seem to manage anything other than confused blots on the sheet of parchment he takes up. Somehow his first effort begins with the line _Dear Uthvir,_  even though Uthvir is certainly not dear. His fingers curl, and he sets the letter aside. He puts the sword in the armoury, where it will not be damaged, and determines that he can do this later.

Later.

When his mind is more clear.

Only, of course, he is a busy man, and somehow later does not come before another package does.

And again, Thenvunin stares. And he does not know what to make of it; and his emotions are confused, and incorrect to the situation, because he should be outraged but somehow Uthvir is sending him gifts that steal his breath. And he does not know how they are doing it, when they are so tasteless and crude and savage themselves; if he had ever cared to imagine receiving courting gifts from Uthvir (and he hadn’t, of course) he would have pictured wholly inadequate things. Bear pelts and bone knives and dead animals, or somesuch.

Not this.

Not notes full of compliments, and boxes full of beautiful jewellery. Thenvunin makes the mistake of opening this box in the front entryway, thinking it was a different package he had been expecting; and he hears a sharp inhalation from behind him, as Tarensa leans over his shoulder.

“Thenvunin,” she says. “What is this made of? It is gorgeous!”

“I do not know what it is made of,” he admits.

Pride pads curiously over on his paws, and peers into the box as well; before Thenvunin snatches it up, and away.

“That is Waverunner bone,” Pride says, tilting his head. “How did you not know that? Did you not commission this jewellery?”

 _Bone._  Well, that is almost reassuringly suitable; though it would be more fitting if it weren’t so… so…

“It is a gift,” Tarensa realizes. “Thenvunin! Are you being courted?”

Thenvunin tilts his chin up a little bit, bristling at the shock in her voice.

“You need not make it sound so preposterous,” he insists.

“You are being courted by one of Andruil’s people?” Pride asks.

A bolt of horror shoots straight down through Thenvunin, and he stares at the wolf, and wonders how the conceited little wretch could possibly have figured that out, and then he thinks, no, because he is _not_  being courted, because it is a _jest_  and he turned Uthvir down because as if he would want to be known to entertain the company of people like that. Because he does not wish to entertain their company at all. Of course not.

“Where did you get the idea it was a hunter?” Tarensa wonders.

Pride sits back a bit.

“Well, if it is a courtship gift, it should have meaning to the giver as well as the recipient. If a hunter killed a Waverunner, they would have used their skills to obtain a vital ingredient for the gift. So either it is a hunter, or a jeweller, I would think.”

Thenvunin sniffs, and relaxed fractionally.

“There are many ways for courtship gifts to have meaning,” he says. “Besides which, that is presuming it is one; and it is not. It is simply a gift.”

So saying, then, he hurries from the main hall.

The next gift he opens more discreetly, and he is deeply grateful for that; though curious eyes to watch him as he received it in the front entryway. He takes the package back to his chambers, and marvels at the distinctive work of his favourite tailor. How did they…?

He pulls out an outfit that is the very height of fashion; and then another, which as clearly been designed to go with his new jewellery. And then he pulls out a third, and his blood rushes straight to his face as he examines it and abruptly realizes that yes, that neckline really is that… and it is, quite clearly, not meant to be worn with anything underneath…

He reads the note, and that just makes it worse. The fourth outfit is no better, and it is almost a relief to have such obviously lustful intentions directed at him once more. Clearly, Uthvir has at last come to the point of all this. Thenvunin supposes he is meant to _wear_  these ridiculous, scandalous outfits, so that the hunter can come and paw them off of him. Likely Uthvir will be by tonight, then. Perhaps stealing into Thenvunin’s chambers.

The thought makes him shudder.

With revulsion.

He stares at the red and purple outfits. Well… well, if it will get this farce over and done with, he supposes, then he can endure an evening of Uthvir’s claws. Very likely, Uthvir will ruin whichever outfit he happens to be in. At least, Thenvunin supposes, it is _considerate_  of them to provide the outfit in the first place. They stare at the red for a long moment. Then they pick up the purple; purple is out of fashion, these days.

It still looks very good on Thenvunin, of course. The outfit would almost be decent, but the three-way mirror in the room clearly displays the plunging backline, which leaves a vast swath of skin utterly exposed as it dips downwards, barely coming short of the cleft of his backside. He looks like he should be greeting guests at some sort of pleasure house.

 _Of course_  Uthvir would want to subject him to that sort of indignity.

He imagines the hunter’s touch tracing over his bared skin, and shudders. What will they do, then? Just… pull down the fabric and…

Thenvunin will just have to endure it, he supposes.

He settles in to wait.

And wait.

And somehow, he manages to fall asleep atop the covers of his bed, lying on his stomach; and he wakes with only the feeling of cold air on his back, entirely alone and unmolested.

He sits up, slowly.

Uthvir did not come.

Uthvir sent him a box of scandalous outfits, and did not come to rip the off of him.

Thenvunin stares at the purple fabric of his arms, and is forced to once again entertain a disquieting notion. Perhaps Uthvir is merely toying with him. Perhaps they think it would be amusing, to build up the anticipation. Perhaps they will come tomorrow night instead, or the next; or leave it a whole week, before they slide up behind Thenvunin, and whisper something wholly inappropriate in his ear.

_Did you like my gifts?_

But perhaps…

Thenvunin recalls the press of that inquiry, again. The strange fondness to Uthvir’s smile. The flash of pain in them, as they had left; there and buried again so swiftly.

Perhaps Uthvir is sincere.

Well. What difference does it make if they are? Thenvunin is beautiful and high-ranking and charming; of course people fall in love with him. He is certain they probably do so all the time. Perhaps none have actually attempted to _pursue_  him in this fashion, but only because they likely knew he was far beyond their station. It would take someone as socially inept and presumptuous as Uthvir to do something like that.

Or someone actually worthy of him, of course.

It should make no difference, except perhaps that Thenvunin should send back the gifts, in that case. To make the rejection quite clear.

Standing, Thenvunin removes the scandalous outfit, and shoves it and the rest into his closet.

Later, he decides.

He can send them back… later.


	19. Possessive Uthvir

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a prompt requesting a possessive NSFW sharkbait smutlet, and featuring the outfit from the previous temporal shenanigans.

Thenvunin is wearing his red outfit.

Though, it seems he might not be for much longer.

Uthvir slides the sleeves off of Thenvunin’s shoulders, catching his arms at his sides as they pin him against the wall, and sink their teeth into the bare skin they expose. Thenvunin hisses and bites back a protest as droplets of blood, the same colour as his dress and the rubies in his jewellery, well up from the surface of the bite. Right before Uthvir laves it with their tongue.

The din from the dining hall is perilously close by. The hunter’s bedchamber is closer still, and yet it seems they are too tempestuously overcome to make the last few steps towards decency. Instead, with the tight fabric lowered from its expected position, the plunging opening of Thenvunin’s outfit is loosened enough that all the hunter has to do is pull it down, and he is exposed.

“You are wearing my colour,” the hunter purrs, leaning up to nip at his earlobe, as his growing erection twitches and presses against the smooth plating on their thigh.

“It is _red,”_ he protests. “You do not own the colour red, Uthvir.”

“I like you in my colour,” they insist, utterly ignoring his entirely reasonable point. They shift their thigh a bit, pressing the surface more firmly to him, and sink another bite into him above the gold of his necklace. The pointed tips of their nails trail down the exposed skin of his chest. Thenvunin bites his lip and tamps down on the sound threatening to escape him.

It is purely physical stimulus, he tells himself, that has his arousal growing so rapidly as Uthvir paws at him, and begins to whisper filthy promises into his ear. They seem to be under the delusion that Thenvunin has orchestrated this. That he anticipated their improper reaction to a simple outfit. That he left the banquet hall when he did precisely because he wanted them to follow him.

He only gave them that look to make certain they _would not_  do precisely this!

But of course, he should have known better.

“Come on my thigh,” the hunter instructs him, as if their command should be enough for it. But then they shift their leg and brush up against him, and Thenvunin is flushed and hard and so damnably _sensitive,_  sometimes, that when they firmly clutch his waist and bite him for a _third time,_  he does. He swallows back a cry as he spills himself over their armour, and they chuckle.

Their tongue rakes across their newest bite.

He cannot swallow back the gasp that escapes him then. As his nerves sing, and his skin tingles in that familiar way it does whenever Uthvir draws blood - burning and thrumming and heightening everything around it - he feels the hunter’s tongue drag across the wound, and yet also across one of his bared nipples.

Thenvunin stills, and then stiffens as they do it again. Mouth at his neck, tongue on the bite mark, and yet brushing over the other nipple instead. He tips his head back at the sensation, part of him wondering _how_  they are doing that. He raises a hand to push them away and demand an explanation, but somehow it just ends up curling into Uthvir’s belt as they move to one of the other bite marks, and their tongue somehow wanders his body. Trailing over his navel. Soothing over the sensitive skin of his spent cock. Delving into… 

Ah.

Thenvunin jolts and lets out something perilously close to a _mewl,_  before he snaps his mouth shut again in a hurry.

“ _Uthvir,”_  he hisses, mustering his outrage.

And then he hears footsteps.

Heavy, steady, moving closer down the corridor. A spike of alarm shoots through him and he is caught between the impulse to let out a protest, push the hunter away and try to right his clothing, or demand they adjourn to the room, or stay silent because the owner of those steps is certainly close enough to overhear him, and his reputation is going to be in ruins and there is no chance he can pull his outfit back into place and fix his hair and…

Uthvir grabs him before he can even start, though, and pulls him swiftly into their chambers. The door bangs solidly shut, and they lock it with a wave, their gaze dark and intent and Thenvunin’s mouth goes a little dry and a fresh shock of arousal shoots through him, fizzling along his recently-spent nerves, because of course the hunter is always lustful but _that_  is… somewhat exceptional in degree.

He shuffles back a few awkward steps, and they stalk towards him.

“Tonight you are mine and mine alone, Thenvunin,” they purr.

“Yours?!” he sputters. It comes out slightly higher-pitched than he had intended. “I am not yours, not in any sense, you presumptuous-”

They pick him up.

Thenvunin goes silent more out of shock than anything else. Intellectually, of course, he is well aware that Uthvir is quite strong. Physically as well as magically. But Uthvir is also _short_  and _slender._  There is something wholly unexpected about having the hunter close their grip around him, sling an arm beneath his legs and lift him cleanly off the ground, and he blames that for the sudden rush of surging heat it provokes in him, and the speeding of his heart.

The hunter carries him over to the bed, and drops him onto it. He can scarcely react before they are climbing over him, looming like the predatory menace they air, arms framing him and lips pulled back in an insufferable smirk as they stare down at him. He swallows at they lean in, and press a searing, biting kiss to his lips.

“Mine,” they say.

Another rush of arousal, coincidentally, surges through him.

“Beast,” he returns.

The hunter chuckles, their expression still dark and hungry, and attacks the other side of his neck. They pin his wrists as they trail lips and teeth and tongue across his chest, and draw echoing sentiments across the rest of his form. He restrains his hips as an invisible tongue draws down his shaft, and then over the soft skin of his inner thighs.

Then they withdraw, all at once, and Thenvunin most certainly does not swallow back anything so inexplicable as a _whine._

Uthvir only removes their gauntlets, however, and their gloves; their nails retract as they retrieve a few things from their bedside table. Thenvunin resigns himself to his fate as they set about binding him. They go slowly, now, though, drawing it out as they tie his arms down to the mattress. He waits for them to tear his clothes off, but that doesn’t happen. Though for some reason Uthvir _does_  take the time to remove his jewellery.

The hunter gently unclips his hair pieces, and takes off his earrings, and necklace. They run their fingers over the small indentations left by the pieces, and then pour a small circle of oil into their palm, and set about soothing the skin of his throat. As if Thenvunin’s necklace might have been a collar that was chafing him. But all the while Uthvir’s gaze remains hungry, and half-lidded, and clearly fraught with desire.

Their hands trail down his torso, and they add more oil, toying with him until he is fully hard again, before at last angling his hips upwards. They gather up his skirt and push it high around his hips, and spread his legs just barely short of the point of discomfort, before they begin to open him up.

“My colour suits you,” Uthvir says, low and husky. “It looks very nice next to your flushed cock.”

 _Of all the impertinent commentary,_  Thenvunin thinks.

“But then, I have thought that before. Usually when it is pressed tight against the backs of your thighs.”

“You - you -” he protests, his incoherence perfectly reasonable under the circumstances. Uthvir is spreading a _liberal_  amount of oil into him, and that means they intend to go hard.

“Yes. Me,” the hunter says, smugly, as if Thenvunin has given them some compliment. “I am going to take you until you scream my name. Or ask me to stop. Shall we see which happens first?”

“Savage!” Thenvunin accuses. 

Uthvir’s fingers are a distraction that rob him any further comments, however. A clever ruse, of course, to claim that Thenvunin could stop this with a command, when it is clear that he will be kept in a state far too breathless for speech. He stares up at the canopy over the bed as the hunter steadily works him open, curling their touch in such a way as to tax his self-control. His hair spreads across the pillows in a silken fan, and the soft fabric of his clothing brushes, every so often, against the straining flesh of his arousal.

Indignities beyond measure.

Just when he is certain he cannot take any more drawing out of this affair, then, the hunter lifts his legs, and carefully aligns themselves with him. Thenvunin braces himself, but is still almost shocked when they thrust so easily into him, and with so little further preamble. No more drawing out of matters, it seems. They clutch him tight, their nails sharpening to points that dig into his legs as the length of them stretches him. 

They give him a few slow thrusts, at first, before burrowing into him completely, and then they set a fierce pace. Thenvunin throws his head back and closes his eyes as the bed sways, and he feels the frenzied slide of them inside him, and parts of his legs smack against their plating hard enough to sting. The bite marks they have left on him begin to tingle, and burn, and then seem to light the whole of his flesh with a molten pleasure that rises in tandem with the rhythm of Uthvir’s thrusts.

He… 

He cannot…

The hunter closes a hand around him, and he is gone. He is certain he cries out, but only because of the ragged scrape of his throat afterwards. His vision goes white. His skin feels like it bursts apart.

When he blinks back to reality, his bite marks are throbbing, his seed is scattered across the clothing at his waist, and Uthvir is still going.

Thenvunin curses.

“That was very good,” the hunter purrs. “Unintelligible, but very, _very good.”_  

They thrust more firmly on their words, and Thenvunin scowls at the indignity.

He had cried out _stop,_  he is certain.

If only he could speak, he would tell them to stop. But then they lift him higher, changing the angle from which they are ravaging him, and all he can manage is another tattered curse. His arms strain against their bindings. His torso slants, more red fabric spilling up it as he is tilted, and Uthvir keeps going.

They keep going until he begins to harden again. They go harder when a few stray gasps and moans manage to sneak insolently past his lips. They purr untoward compliments at him, smirking, and that hungry light in their eyes grows and grows, and the sharp points of their teeth become glinting pinpricks of whiteness in the fading light.

Thenvunin pants, and nobly struggles to escape - it is certainly not writhing - and when Uthvir grasps his erection, another errant sound escapes him.

“You sound so lovely,” the hunter murmurs, their own voice breathy. The comment comes out more baffled than their usual brand of lascivious compliments, though.

Their rhythm stutters a bit. 

The hunter chuckles.

“I may have to break my promise,” they say, lowering him down a bit more, and slowing their pace somewhat. “At this rate you might outlast me.”

Well.

Well, naturally. Thenvunin’s constitution is exemplary.

And if he trembles a bit when Uthvir looks at him, it is because that hunger is stronger than ever, and because they stroke him so adeptly. He swallows, and casts his head back again, closing his eyes against the onslaught.

“Thenvunin,” Uthvir says.

His breath stalls.

“Thenvunin. Please, Thenvunin.”

The hips rocking against him stutter a bit. The warmth in him grows, thanks to the hand coaxing it upwards, and something in his chest twists. He draws in a broken breath, and finds himself struggling against his restraints in earnest. To escape, of course. Certainly not to grab hold of the fiend ravishing him. Not to draw them in for a kiss, or tangle a hand in their hair, or any such ignoble thing.

He lets out a frantic curse, and opens his mouth to demand they stop.

“Uthvir!”

It is an error, of course. What he means is ‘Uthvir, _stop that’._  Given his frayed state, it is a natural mistake to make.

Uthvir thrusts into him once more, and cries out in relief. They tighten their hold on him and he follows again, dragged upwards by the singing of his flesh, until his vision is eaten by stars.

When it is done, he heaves in a few long, stuttering breaths. But at least Uthvir is no better. The hunter seems a bit overcome; blinking back the low intent that has been burning in their eyes. Sated, for now. Though their appetite can never be satisfied for long. They slink languidly up the bed, and curl halfway onto Thenvunin, sharp and still more dressed than not.

Of course they never even have the decency to properly disrobe for these things.

Thenvunin’s hands are still tied, so all he can do is endure it as they settle against him for the span of a few breaths.

“I like it when you wear my colour,” Uthvir finally says.

Insufferable fiend.

“It is _not_  your colour,” Thenvunin insists, as he at last manages to catch some of his breath. 

The hunter just chuckles.


	20. Festivals

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by some of Pyrrhy's gorgeous artwork on tumblr.

The grand procession for Arlathan’s anniversary is, of course, a sight to be seen. 

Leaders and their highest-ranking followers, all in finely coordinated processions and regalia, make their way through the city. For the highest points of the celebration, the lower classes are forbidden from setting foot outside. The finest grandiosity of the event is reserved for those most worthy of its splendor. It is a dance, of magic and bodies, of symbols and elegance. The energies of the city are gathered, and woven together; renewed by dint of carefully coordinated ritual, which ends with the sacrifice of a half dozen spirits.

It is… not Uthvir’s favourite part of the proceedings, truth be told.

But in the later half of the day, and in the days following it, the gates of the city are flung wide. The lower districts, normally reserved and restricted in their expressions, are given full leave to self-expression. Banners fly. Grey walls turn to riots of colour. Magical displays and art forms fill the streets. Artists in the lower ranks who seek to catch the eye of those above, to prove themselves worthy of some special regard or commendation, stand one of their best chances at it during the anniversary celebration. And they make full use of that opportunity, in displays and efforts that can be as grandiose in their failings as successes.

Uthvir would like, someday, to simply enjoy the celebration. But thusfar, every anniversary, they have been chosen for Andruil’s honour guard. A task which has them following her through the streets, standing at her side for various festivities, and keeping a watchful eye out for any would-be assassins or insurgents who might _also_ take advantage of the city’s wide-flung doors and rampant displays. Andruil does not attract as much ire from the Nameless as her eldest brother does, but then, very few people in the world can attract as much ire as Falon’Din.

If there is a high point to their task, it is that Andruil tends to spend such holidays in the company of her mother and sister, moreso than her wife. And Mythal and Sylaise’s attendants are among some of the loveliest in any procession.

This year, Sylaise’s people are coordinated – all of them – in hues of midnight blue and purple, with golden strands woven into hairstyles that stretch up towards the skies, and clinking bracelets, and long, flowing skirts and capes that flash and flare with their every movement. Their skin is either painted or shifted to the darkest of blacks, with silvery glitter pressed into it, and Sylaise herself looks like a piece of the night sky that has fallen to earth.

Mythal’s contingent is pale, by contrast. Not nearly so uniform, and yet, still elegantly coordinated. Her attendants dress in flowing white and gold, in shimmering red and copper ribbons, and flowing fabrics that drift and billow like clouds, to flutter gracefully alongside Sylaise’s elegant shadows. Even her guards have foregone armour, and so they are all of them soft and shimmering. A stark contrast to Andruil’s contingent, which has become a sea of black and red and golden armour.

The mood is strange. Excited, but not in quite the usual manner of festivities, nor in the fashion that might denote danger. But they are, in these three groups, all of them over-dressed. Some of them sharp, and some of them fluttering. The combination is serving to bait the hunters’ interests, and in turn, Sylaise and Mythal’s people are playing _coy._

It is almost delightful, Uthvir thinks. It is very easy to be charming in this atmosphere. To flirt, and compliment, and wink, and smirk. To play their part.

When they catch sight of Thenvunin, then, it is thoughtless to simply reach over and take his hand, and press a kiss to the back of it. He is dressed splendidly, of course, but somehow Uthvir hardly notices. It is barely more splendid than how he commonly dresses, with his preoccupation towards such things. More finery to wrap himself in. But his hair is loose and flowing, save for a few delicate ribbons. No clips or jewels or deliberate styles pressed into it, and that simplicity is breathtakingly beautiful.

“Thenvunin,” Uthvir greets, in the strange trance of the moment.

He smiles at them.

And approximately half a second later, both of them come up short.

Uthvir stares.

Thenvunin stares back, and abruptly withdraws his hand.

“How presumptuous!” he exclaims, rubbing the back of it on his sleeve. Uthvir feels an inexplicable rush of… something other than arousal or amusement, and does not know quite what to do with it. They blink a few times, and mentally stow it away, before straightening and letting their lips curl into a mocking grin.

“Why, Thenvunin, I do believe you _smiled_ at me,” they say.

“That was completely involuntary, I assure you!” Thenvunin snaps back. “It was reflexive!”

They raise an eyebrow at him, their lips twitching as he immediately backpedals.

“Which is not to say that the sight of you made me want to smile! And that _entirely inappropriate_ gesture most certainly did not! The sheer gall of you taking such liberties. And in public, no less! Not that I – that is, not to say that they should be taken in private, either you – you savage, sneaking up on me like that! I only smiled because I had assumed you were someone else!” Thenvunin sputters at them.

“Oh?” Uthvir wonders, glancing over the throng. “Who, I wonder? I did approach from the front, you know.”

“With your skill, that hardly impedes you sneaking up on anyone,” Thenvunin replies, sniffing. And then he seems to realize that might be construed as a compliment, and immediately sets about trying to retract it.

Uthvir leans against their spear, and lets him make his attempts for a while.

“-and should therefore never be taken as an invitation, nor as encouragement!” Thenvunin concludes after several long minutes, pausing to breathe.

“You look gorgeous. Sky-woven and spirit-kissed,” Uthvir tells him, using compliments that are far older than either of them.

Thenvunin’s cheeks pink, ever-so-slightly. His mouth opens and snaps shut again, and he raises his chin. Haughtiness being the reaction, it seems, that he has settled upon.

“Naturally,” he says.

“Oh yes. It is your natural parts that I like best,” Uthvir agrees, with a wink.

And really, they think as he starts up again. All the jewels and the frippery and the finery do not do him proper credit. They wear him, often as not. As Thenvunin loudly disclaims any interest in Uthvir’s lewd opinions, and they earn several eye-rolls from passersby, the hunter finds their thoughts turning towards the _evening_ festivities.

Most of the attendants are essentially nude for those.

There is something to look forward to, they suppose. Even if it is generally better to look at than take home for an evening.

Maybe they will even dance.


End file.
